


unfounded

by Aquaphobe



Series: un-titled [4]
Category: South Park
Genre: (not explicit bc ew no thank you), Awkward Conversations, Awkward First Times, Awkward Kissing, Awkward af, Boys Being Boys, Childhood Friends, Crushes, First Love, Fluff and Humor, Implied (underage) Sexual Content, M/M, Major Spoilers, Maybe Get Some Tissues or Something Too idk, My Hand Slipped and Now I'm Adding an Epilogue, Oh and Also, One-Sided Love, Oops, Or Like a Stress Ball, Self-Discovery, for ch.23+ of unresolved, just generally, that might help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-27 21:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13889355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aquaphobe/pseuds/Aquaphobe
Summary: "I got a boyfriend."Thomas is eleven years old, in fifth grade (though he's short for his age), and is sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor with his closest friend, Craig Tucker.He doesn't realize it yet, but with those four words the entire course of his life has changed forever.





	1. all things start somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> ** WARNING: THIS FIC CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 23+ OF _UNRESOLVED_! **
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> this is the first part - yes, you heard right, _this damn thing is multi-chaptered now_ \- of my second thank you gift to everyone who has read, commented, kudos'd and bookmarked _unresolved_ so far, since we just pushed past the 100 bookmark count this morning. ilu guuuys  <333
> 
> THIS FIC IS INSPIRED BY/WRITTEN TO [**THIS SONG**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DcuC8_NoeFU). obviously it's not required for you guys to listen to this, but i know a few of my regular commenters like music suggestions, so i thought i'd share ;))

"I got a boyfriend."

Thomas is eleven years old, in fifth grade (though he's short for his age), and is sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor. He doesn't realize it yet, but with those four words the entire course of his life has just changed forever.

For now, he looks up from his Chinpokomon figurines at his dark haired friend. He's not sure how, but after Craig Tucker's creepy offer to do his laundry before last Christmas, they somehow ended up exchanging numbers and messaging a lot. Thomas let slip that he lives in Denver and ever since, he's been spending a few days every month or so in Craig's company.

Don't get him wrong – the younger boy is still odd. It's just that Thomas has always been kind of fond of hanging with the 'odd' kids, because that way they're less likely to judge him. Plus, they’re more interesting. More real.

Occasionally though, Craig takes being odd to a whole new level.

Like today.

He isn't sure he heard right. " _Shit— shit_. Y-you got a what?"

Craig pauses the Xbox game and sets the controller down in his lap to blink slowly at Thomas. "I said, I got a boyfriend." A pause. "As in, I'm dating someone who's got a dick."

Thomas grunts and rolls his eyes, returning his attention to where he was making Velocirapstar and Vamporko duke it out over the sandwich crust he's left on his plate. "You think I don't know what 'boyfriend' means?  _Cocklover, ass-tastic._ "

Unfortunately, he doesn't get the chance to go back to his game, because apparently this has sparked the rare desire in Craig to have an actual conversation.

"It's this boy called Tweek."

"Cool," says the blonde as politely as possible, even though he doesn't really care. As a general rule, Thomas isn't interested in dating or romance (since, you know... he's eleven), so he's struggling to work up much enthusiasm. Just about the only time he gets invested in this sort of thing is if two of his favorite characters in a comic or a cartoon get together - like that one episode in  _Bob's Burgers_  where Gene and Courtney pair up to do the morning announcements. They have what his mom calls 'chemistry'.

Apparently he does too good a job at faking interest (well, that or Craig downright doesn't care about his apathy), because that isn't the end of it.

"He's... weird."

As a self-proclaimed protector of the weird people, that actually catches his attention. He fights down the instinctive urge to defend his own kind. "What do you mean, 'weird'?" he says as calmly as possible, instead.

Craig gets a look on his face like he's trying not to poop his pants. "I mean, he's good at lots of stuff, but he's mostly just loud and panicky. Like a guinea pig."

What.

"A –  _fuck-me-sideways_  – a guinea pig?" There's only so much incredulity he can keep out of his voice.

Shrugging, Craig expands on the statement. "Everything scares him. He shakes and squeaks all the time, but mostly when things startle him." The younger boy scratches the side of his head, beneath one of the earflaps on his hat. "He likes coffee. A lot."

With that, Craig makes a thoughtful sound in his throat and turns back to the game.

Thomas is left blinking at his profile, wondering what the heck just happened.

...

That isn't the end of it, though. Not by a long shot.

...

During Craig's next visit, it's raining. Rather than staying inside where Grandma Tucker is baking cookies and swearing loudly at her television (her hearing aid isn't working properly), they go out to one of the nearby parks, which is, predictably, empty. Well, aside from one mad dog walker who's being dragged around the grass by his seven muscly, tail wagging Rottweilers.

They slump down onto a soggy bench like the water isn't soaking straight through their pants and making their butts miserably cold.

Thomas toes at the mulch with his shiny new sneakers and tries not to think about the kid that's been picking on him at school. It's nothing too bad, but there's something really unsatisfying about being so small and weedy for his age, and being picked on by kids a whole year younger than him. He was hoping that Craig would be a good distraction for him this weekend, but mostly he's still just feeling sad.

Out of nowhere, Craig starts to talk.

"He made me watch  _Zootopia_  with him, and then got scared at the rabid otter scene and locked himself in the bathroom."

" _Aw, shit_." Eyebrows drawing down in confusion, the blonde rolls his head towards his friend. "Who?"

"Tweek," says Craig through a sigh, slouching down in the seat and staring up at the miserable grey sky, even at the risk of stray raindrops temporarily blinding him. "He said he doesn't like when things get out of control. Even though he's  _always_  out of control."

Pausing, Thomas thinks about that for a moment. Finds he agrees with Tweek’s feelings totally, and that he isn't surprised calm, collected Craig Tucker, master of his fate and about as average as anyone could ever dream to be, doesn't.

"I get that," he says, leaning back to study the sky too. (There isn't much to see aside from clouds, clouds, and more clouds.) "Feeling-  _cockhead_. Feeling like you're trapped in a glass box and being pushed around by everyone outside of it, just waiting for it to tumble over and crack when someone pushes too hard.  _Asshole_."

He can feel the exact moment Craig's eyes start boring into his skull, but he just lets the sentence hang over them.

Eventually they get up and wander back to Grandma Tucker's, drenched through to the bone and feeling pretty sorry for themselves. At the elderly woman's insistence, they change into their pajamas even though it’s early, and sit down with a plate of hot, fresh cookies between them.

A few hours later, they end up curled under one blanket and decide to watch  _Zootopia_ , since Craig's still never seen it through to the end.

Even though Thomas has already watched it a dozen times over, he finds himself thinking about how scary the premise of the movie really is: reasonable creatures turning into monsters because someone messes with their minds. He thinks about what kind of animal he would be, and comes to a conclusion he doesn't really like, because there's only one logical answer.

( _Predator_.)

During the scene where the fox, Nick, goes for his little rabbit friend's throat, he shivers. Wonders if Craig's boyfriend thought he'd have been one of the screwed up carnivores too, and if  _that_  was why he had run away when he'd tried watching it.

Being a weirdo – feeling like a  _monster_  – isn't fun.

(He decides he doesn't ever want to see that movie again.)

...

It's the second week of summer after fifth grade, and Thomas goes to the train station to meet up with Craig, who's come a few days early so he can stay with Thomas before going to his Grandma's with his little sister, Ruby.

He's barely caught sight of the other boy – who's somehow grown a full inch since they last saw each other – when he's being pulled in for a tight hug.

Standing stock still, Thomas takes the unusual greeting with a funny little skip of his heart, because even though Craig's always been touchy-feely beyond a level that is normal for Thomas, this is new. It takes him a solid minute before his arms unfreeze enough to wrap around the younger boy, and even then all he can do is pat awkwardly.

After an embarrassing amount of time stood on the platform with his friend clinging to him like they haven't seen each other for years, Craig eases off, stepping away to peer down at him.

There's a small smile on his face that Thomas isn't used to seeing, with a dimple on one side of his mouth. It wipes away all of his embarrassment about being stared at by a hundred passing strangers, and it makes him smile back.

They walk along with the crowd outside Union Station and end up wandering through LoDo, looking into quirky store windows at the displays and just generally wasting time. As the younger boy doesn't seem to mind hauling around his huge, bulging rucksack, Thomas just enjoys the warmth of sun on his face and a breeze catching on the bangs he's been growing out.

Eventually they stumble across Tattered Cover Book Store (one of Thomas' absolute favorite places in the whole world), and he drags a quiet Craig inside, to stroll up and down the wide aisles and peer at the rainbow-array of covers and colors and titles. In each new section of shelving something catches Thomas' eye, and he pulls every book and magazine he fancies down for inspection, his tics soothed almost into silence by smell of crisp paper and ink.

Contentment wraps around him like a second skin.

"I've missed you," says Craig, just a whisper, as Thomas flicks through a sci-fi adventure novel meant for people double his age.

"Me too," he says easily, eyes glued to the tiny font as a passage about, ' _crafting eternity out of star matter_ ' pops off the page at him. "How long's it been? Two months?"

"Three."

Thomas hums at that, and then keeps on reading. The paragraph talks about how, ' _the Ancient Ziriu Warriors dined on the dust of dead suns to reach their fabled immortality, alone and unguarded_ '. It's garbage, but it sounds kinda pretty.

"Hey, check out this bit," he says.

When Thomas taps at it with one finger, figuring that Craig might be interested (seeing as how he's obsessed with space), the younger boy steps up behind his shoulder and scans over the passage.

A few quiet moments pass with Craig's body heat radiating into his back and Thomas' heart doing another funny hiccup (" _Shh-shit_ ," he babbles), before Craig huffs a little breath.

"Tweek'd hate that."

Turning around, Thomas eyes him with curiosity. "What, the fighting? Or the bit about eating burnt rock dust?"

"The eternal life part," says Craig, crossing his arms and peering off into the middle-distance like that'll help reorganise his thoughts. "He's more scared of dying than anything else in the whole world, except maybe Underpants Gnomes." Here, Thomas makes a noise that translates to  _what the heck_? But Craig just shakes his head like it's something he regrets even mentioning, and continues. "But I think that floating through space alone forever, all his family and friends dead, would be even worse."

"Hm." Staring down at the page, he considers spending his life floating around aimlessly with only himself for company, after watching his mom and his few friends die off one by one. An eternity trapped inside his own head, with all his self-loathing and his insecurity and his personal demons. That same strange pang of empathy for this Tweek boy courses through him. " _Ff-fuck_. What about you?" he finds himself asking.

"I think I wouldn't mind," Craig says around a long yawn. "I like daydreaming. And peace. It'd be okay."

Once again, Thomas is left staring into half-lidded blue eyes and thinking, no wonder we don't have much to talk about apart from your boyfriend.

...

By the end of October, Thomas is getting used to awkward sessions on Facetime or Discord as they game together. (Or rather, as Craig games and Thomas flicks through one of his Transformer comics.)

It's only awkward because they don't say much for long periods of time during their calls, and sometimes Thomas forgets Craig's there, so he ends up snorting with laughter or reading sections of dialogue out loud, right into the speaker on his headset.

One of these times in particular starts very awkwardly.

"' _I was only ever using your love as a cover to stamp out the rebellion—_ '? What?  _Shit me_. How could you  _say_  something so—" Thomas freezes mid-yelp when he realizes Craig's stopped clacking at his keyboard.

Looks up from the glossy, colorful page with a surge of heat rushing to his cheeks. In light of the blank stare Craig's levelling him through the monitor of his computer, the drama of his comic is forgotten.

"What was that?" asks Craig, voice flat as ever.

"Um.  _Cocklord, cock_. Just a bit in this." He holds it up comic so its in line with the camera, and watches Craig's expression go from blank to (if possible) blanker. "Turns out the good guy's actually secretly been a baddy all along."

"Oh." The younger boy glances down, presumably at his keyboard, but doesn't go back to playing his game yet.

Somehow Thomas knows that this is one of those moments when he's expected to ask what's on his friend's mind. (As he doesn't have many proper friends outside of his group therapy sessions and his old Summer Camp buddies, he's maybe a little out of practice.) "Why? What'd you think I was –  _assface_  – talking about?"

Craig reaches out for something off-screen and returns with a mug, which he lifts up to his face. No doubt it's full of coffee. He takes several long gulps of his drink, even though Thomas spots his upper lip curling when he pulls away.

They sit in silence, Thomas watching the screen and Craig peering into his mug – which stays perched in front of his face, steam billowing out the top in barely-there wisps – like it might hold the answers to the universe. Thomas is just starting to think that maybe he wasn't supposed to ask anything after all, when Craig finally talks.

"He's not my boyfriend."

Furrows his eyebrows. "Huh?"

"Tweek. He's not my boyfriend. Not really," Craig says the words very quietly and glances off to one side, like he's worried someone might hear him say them.

Thomas stares at his friend's pixelated face. Feels a little like he's missing something here. "Wait... then why—?"

"Because everyone  _pushed us into it_." He releases the words in a loud burst that has Thomas rocking back in his desk chair, eyes wide. He's never heard Craig shout before.

Heart thumping from the shock, and shiny comic clutched to his chest, he struggles for a moment to think of anything else to say. Gives up trying to censor his words after he realizes it's pointless. He's never going to be good with choosing the right things to say, so he might as well just go for it and hope for the best. "Why would you go along with that?"

"It was _easier_." Craig sets the mug down with an audible  _clunk_  and scowls back at Thomas. "Tweek stopped getting bothered by his dad about stuff and the chicks at school really dig it and... I dunno. It was that or have everyone think I'm a manipulative cheater. It seemed like the better option."

Right. Okay. This makes no sense to Thomas, who generally considers his life to be nice and dull, if not a little depressing when his Tourette’s is really playing up or when another of the school bullies starts picking on him.

Just then, though, something else occurs to him.

"You said about 'chicks'? Are—  _asslicker, ass— cumballs_. Are you even gay, then?"

Now it's Craig's turn to stare at him like he's a weirdo. "Dude, I'm  _eleven_. I don't even know what I want for dinner at night, let alone if I wanna bang dudes or not." Thomas notes distantly that either Craig's lighting must be really bad, or the other boy's face has gone an unholy shade of pink. "That's like me asking  _you_  if you like guys or girls."

This gives Thomas pause. It's honestly not something he's ever considered before. "Huh.  _Shitbag_. I don't know," he says after a couple seconds consideration. "I never really thought about it."

" _Exactly_ ," says Craig.

It's around this point that something else occurs to him. "Does Tweek like you?"

He doesn't require a verbal answer thanks to the way one of Craig's eyebrows arches.

"Okay, okay," he holds up one hand like that might calm the other boy down. "So you don't like each other, and you both  _know_  you don't like each other.  _Asshat_. Plus you get the benefits of pretending you're going out."

" _And_  he's one of my best friends," says Craig.

(Thomas finds himself hoping that maybe, just maybe, he's becoming one of Craig's best friends, too.)

But... that still doesn't answer what's upsetting the younger boy. "So what's the problem?"

"I just—" Craig rubs one hand over his face. "I can't help but feel like this is all gonna go badly. Like it's gonna blow up on us."

Thomas makes a thoughtful sound, and they lapse back into a quiet that makes all the little blonde hairs on the back of his arms rise up to attention.

In the end, all Thomas can think to say is, "My mom always says we should deal with one problem at a time. Just take –  _fucking bastard_  – baby steps."

"Like what?" Craig sounds so interested in what he has to say – in his  _opinion_  – that Thomas can't help but grin.

"You go on with how things are right now, and work on figuring out the most important thing first."

"Which is?"

"If you like girls, guys, both or neither."

The younger boy makes another sound of distress. "What good's  _that_  gonna do?"

He shrugs, because honestly, it might do nothing at all. What does  _he_  know? He's only a kid, after all. "It might make the next step a little clearer."

The silence following that statement lasts so long that Thomas half wonders if his computer's frozen – actually leans forwards to tap at the side of the monitor and—

almost jumps right out of his skin when Craig speaks up again.

"Okay, Tommy... I'll do it. So long as you do it with me."

Thomas' heart does another funny little skip at the nickname he's never heard before, and he gulps down a flutter of embarrassment.

Takes a while to try and figure out what Craig's referring to.

Oh. What kind of people they like.

Well, it couldn't hurt anything, could it? It might even be a fun little project when the rest of his life gets to be a little too sad.

"Y-yeah," he says, smiling down at the cover of his comic. "Yeah, okay. We'll figure it out together."


	2. your air-head's my lifeboat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. to help us keep track of things, in this chapter, Tommy is 12 (6th grade) and Craig is 11 (5th grade). we're one year post-canon. ;)))

After that one conversation about sexuality, they don't really discuss it again for a long time.

As the school year passes, Craig comes and goes out of Thomas' life the way he always has before, except now in between visits, they talk almost constantly – whenever Craig isn't with his not-so-real boyfriend.

But therein lies the next big change.

While prior to Craig admitting he wasn't really dating Tweek, the mentions of this mysterious 'boyfriend' were few and far between, now they're regular occurrences. Almost every call they share revolves in some way around the funny sounding not-boyfriend. It's like once that stopper came off, Craig struggled not to share everything with someone that knows the  _truth_.

Strangely, this arrangement doesn't bother Thomas at all.

(But then, he's  _always_  loved stories.)

...

"We went to play basketball with the guys, which turned into a week-long tournament – sorry dude, that's why I haven't been online the last couple days – and we almost got signed by a college after Cartman contacted some local journalists for press coverage. Well, until Broflovski found out about how Cartman started putting the funding and sponsorship money we were being offered into his bank account, instead of the club's."

It ought to say something that Thomas is used to this level of weirdness already. Craig's life in South Park is at once fascinating and terrifying. Like reading a fantasy book, he loves the story but is vastly relieved he isn't part of that world himself. Thomas isn't sure he'd  _survive_  those levels of crazy.

He just makes a thoughtful sound and nods his head, even though the other boy can't see him. "So everything ended up falling apart, huh?"

"Uh-huh. Not before Tweek brought together a cheerleading troop to sing this song he wrote, though."

Like getting to his favourite scene in a movie, Thomas perks up, smile widening and shuffling further upright in his chair. "What—  _shitdamn_. What was it about?"

"It was about how the new sidedish at City Wok has a chip in it to brainwash people."

He pulls his cell away from his ear to stare down at it blankly for a second. " _Ff-uck, motherfucking ass_. Please tell me he was being quirky."

There's a pause from the other end.

"It's... kind of a hot-button issue over here right now," Craig says it in a voice that tells Thomas he's maybe a little embarrassed about the crazy stuff that's always going down in his hometown.

At a loss for words, Thomas does his best to backtrack. "Well... did he at least... succeed?"

"C'mon, Tommy, this is Tweek—" starts Craig.

"—So of course he did," Thomas finishes with a grin.

"Once he gets his head around something, he's unstoppable."

That's why he's my favorite, Thomas thinks. Right after you.

...

They're on Facetime, and he's sat up in bed on the family iPad with the lights off, even though he's meant to be asleep. It's late – almost two in the morning – but he hasn't had the chance to talk to Craig yet today, since the other boy's been staying at Tweek's. Thomas has missed chatting.

He can barely make out Craig's face in the darkness beyond the dull glow from the other boy's phone, but he can sort of hear his voice, so long as he listens carefully.

Shuffling further down into his blankets and settling the iPad so it's leant against the headboard, he buries his nose into the fabric of his pillow and squints at the screen.

"Tweek made me a mug," says Craig, leaning so close to his camera to whisper this that he looks like a big brown blur.

"What's it loo—  _sh-shit_. What's it look like?" Thomas says around a huge, half-stifled yawn.

"It's green and blue." Some shuffling, and then his face withdraws a little from the screen so that Thomas can just about make out pale eyes in the gloom. "I think they're meant to be stripes but his shakes must've been really bad because they're, uh, more like patches."

" _Aw, shit_. Do you like it?"

A breathy chuckle. "I love it. Even though it's got a hole in the bottom bit where he overcooked it, or something."

Thomas chokes off a laugh into his pillowcase, knowing that if his mom catches him awake at this time – even if it  _is_  a Friday night – he'll be in a lot of trouble. "So it's more of a... display cup," he says once the giggles have died down a little.

"Dude, it's fucking useless," says Craig, but Thomas doesn't need to see his face to know he's smiling.

“But…?” he pushes.

A moment later, his friend repeats, " But I love it."

...

"We went to the waterpark with the school today," says Craig through a mouthful of turkey sandwich.

Eyes nearly popping out of his head, Thomas peers out of the dining room window at the thick flurries of white burying the world outside. "It's almost  _December,_ " he says incredulously as he turns back to the iPad, which he's propped up against the fruit bowl as he eats his microwave Mac and Cheese.

Craig rolls his eyes. "It's  _always_  December in South Park." Stops to swallow his next bite. "Well, except for when we hit July."

Sighing and prodding his fork into his goopy yellow pasta, Thomas says sadly, "I dunno how you guys cope. I  _hate_  snow. The cold sucks." But maybe he's a little biased, as he's hated it ever since the winter that his dad left. That first Christmas with just him and his mom had been awful, no matter  _how_  hard they'd tried to enjoy it. " _Asslicker dickface_."

With a hum and a shrug of his shoulders, his younger friend says, "When you grow up with it all year round, it's just... normal. We're actually all bummed out when the snow  _does_  melt."

" _Fuck-me-up_. So did you go swimming, then?" asks Thomas, not even trying to be subtle about his sudden change of conversation.

Thankfully, Craig rolls with it. (As he always does.) "No. Turns out it was under maintenance for the off-season, but whoever organized the trip didn't actually bother checking before we left. So we had a two-hour coach ride each way, for nothing."

"Sounds like –  _sh-shit, shit_  – hell." He sends up a silent thank you to God that he attends the most average of schools ever, where his biggest problem is avoiding the bullies and doing well in his classes, even though most of his teachers and classmates are sick of him and his Tourette's interrupting their learning.

"It was okay," Craig says in a drawling voice that Thomas has learned means he's trying to act cool, even though he's secretly happy. "I sat next to Tweek the whole way."

"Did he fall asleep on your shoulder?" Thomas says, teasing. (But not really, because. Uh. Well, he's curious.)

"Does he ever really sleep?" says Craig.

The blonde snorts. "Good point. What did you guys do, then?"

"He spent the whole first half having a meltdown because he could hear something 'grating' and he thought we were gonna die." His friend shrugs again and stuffs another corner of his sandwich into his mouth.

In the lapse between talking, Thomas swallows down a forkful of his sloppy meal and looks at the clock on the wall. His mom doesn't finish work for another half hour.

"But," Craig eventually says, "he hugged me the entire way home. For the whole two hours." And then a little too proudly: "I've got bruises from it."

"You're weird," Thomas says, even though the thought of it makes his heart go, ' _Oh. Okay. Time to beat funny._ '

(It's kind of a nice feeling.)

...

06:32  
_HAPPY CHRISTMAS CRAIG!_  
_my mom got me a new phone. :D_

09:07  
_dude why r u awake so early_  
_that is not normel_

09:21  
_everyone normal starts christmas at 6._  
its like a rule.  
_youve been doing it wrong all your life._

09:24  
_wuldnt b the 1st time_  
_wat else did u get_  
_?_

10:35  
_sorry. was having break fast._  
_i got a new transformers toy from my aunt._  
_some legos from mom._  
_and a gift voucher for steam from my cousin._  
_we can pick out some games when you come over next week._  
_i got some cards and candy from kids in therapy too._  
_what about you._

11:14  
_cool dude_  
_cant wait 2 c u_  
_i got money mostly_  
_but tweek made me a collarge out of some old doodles_  
_and he rote me an other song_

11:16  
_that sounds really nice. :)_  
_can you sing it to me when you come over next._

11:17  
_yh sure :)_

11:21  
_mom wants to go on a walk._  
_we can go on discord later._

11:23  
_awsome_

22:03  
_i forget 2 say_  
_merry xmas tommy x_

...

"I'm so, so,  _so_  sorry I had to cancel my trip, dude," Craig says in a huff of breath down the phone.

The blonde curls up tighter in his bed and tries not to feel bitter, because it's not  _Craig's_  fault that Thomas has no other friends to make plans with over Winter break. " _Ff-fucking— shitstain_. What happened?" he says, around the sting in his eyes. Doesn't say,  _I thought you finally got sick of me_.

"My parents got us a surprise trip skiing with Tweek's family. I had no idea about it, and we left so early on the twenty-sixth that I didn't have time to pack or anything. I didn't even get to take my phone, and I couldn't remember your number."

Rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes, Thomas swallows down a sniffle. Craig sounds genuinely worried, so he tries to ignore the fact he'd spent almost an entire day texting the younger boy and standing around alone in the snow outside Union Station, until he'd finally gotten a call from his mom saying Craig's dad had phoned to let her know that Craig wasn't coming.

Without any context, it had seemed like Craig was angry with him, like his only close friend had ditched on him for good. He'd thought he'd been abandoned - kicked to the side - until he'd found a rushed message on Facebook a few days later.

Thinking back to that desolate, stomach churning pain brings it back to life again.

" _Aw, fucking— fuck my shitty goddamn bastar— bastard-bastard, cunt. Assmaster, ass, grind your fucking shit, shitting_ —"

He buries his face in his pillow and gives in to the aggressive tic, tears working their way out the corners of his eyes. It goes on for what feels like forever, humiliation, relief and leftover resentment bubbling up into the perfect fodder for his Tourette's.

Craig stays quiet on the other end of the line, non-judgemental and calm as ever.

Finally, it eases off into something more manageable. His shoulders shake and he sniffles pathetically, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jumper. "S-sorry," he says. "I just thought—  _fuck-him-up, stupid shit_. I just thought I'd –  _cocksucker_  – done something to make you m-mm –  _motherfucking_ – mad at me."

"What? No," says Craig, in a raised voice. "You didn't do  _anything_  dude. It was my fucking parents not telling me." When this illicits a loud, sad hiccup, he follows up with, "I'm sorry, dude. I'm so sorry."

"O-okay," he says, even as he feels another tic building up in the back of his throat. "I'm gonna go now. Tal— talk later."

Presses his thumb into the  _off_  button to the sound of Craig saying, "Tommy, wai—"

...

That next visit starts off so painfully awkward that Thomas spends the whole first half of the morning cringing.

Craig hugs him long and tight when he steps off the train, as is now custom, but it's stiff and clunky.

They don't wander through town for too long – just go straight back to Thomas' house and sit in his room.

The older boy flicks through his magazine and the younger sits down on the other end of the bed and pretends like he's using his phone, even though Thomas can feel eyes on him every few minutes.

It's only after they have a mediocre lunch of stale toaster waffles that the atmosphere changes.

"Can I sing to you?" Craig asks across the dining table, face and voice calm but eyes big. "That song I got from Tweek?"

He can't help but look up from his plate, where he's pushing one last bite back and forth through the syrup. "Okay," he says quietly.

Once they've washed up their plates and put them on the side to dry, Thomas trails through the empty house to the living room, and slouches down on the couch. Craig follows, sitting close and doing a weird little shuffle. “Here.”

When he pats his lap with one hand, Thomas gives he the side-eye. "What are you doing?"

"Here," says Craig a second time. "You've gotta put your head on my lap while I sing it, because that's the way it's meant to be listened to."

"Can't you just sing it sat up?" Thomas says, voice a little strained and face heating up at the thought them doing something so— so  _girly_.

"No, dude. We've  _gotta_  do it like this." The frown that gets levelled at him makes Thomas' will crumble.

With sharp elbows and a string of curse words, he lowers himself down, and then lies flat as a board with his head resting heavy on Craig's thigh. His heart does its customary skip when Craig's fingers pat tentatively against his hair.

Clearing his throat, Craig says, "It's called ' _Lap full of head, head full of stars._ '"

And with that, he starts singing.

 _"You got a head up on your shoulders,_  
_a head packed full of sky,_  
_and a neck to keep you tethered down_  
_like that'll stop you tryin'a fly."_

Craig's drawling voices gets softer, flowing over the words like he's sung them a million times already, and now they're as natural as breathing. Thomas looks up at the underside of his friend's chin and finds his thoughts running away from him.

 _"Lap full of head,_  
_head full of stars,_  
_let me come along with you_  
_next time you go to mars._

 _"But it looks like too much pressure_  
_'cause your limbs keep stretching out,_  
_and before we even know it,_  
_to be heard I'll have to shout."_

He has to fight the urge to laugh at the silliness of the last line, his shoulders shaking with the intensity of it. Craig, apparently feeling this, glances down at him with that one-dimpled grin, but keeps on singing.

 _"Lap full of head,_  
_head full of stars,_  
_please let me fly off with you_  
_all the way past mars._

 _"So lower down your floating head,_  
_I'll help to hold you near,_  
_and please ignore the shaking,_  
_I'm just happy that you're here._

 _"Lap full of head,_  
_head full of stars,_  
_let me fly off with you_  
_a hundred miles past mars."_

At some point during the silly, drawling words, his eyes drift shut and Craig starts petting his hair like he's a cat. Thomas doesn't mind. It's soothing.

 _"At the end I'll reel you in,_  
_And down to earth we'll float,_  
_Cause where you swim I'll always sink:_  
_your air-head's my lifeboat._

 _"Lap full of head,_  
_head full of stars,_  
_I'll go on chasing after you,_  
_no matter where you are."_

For the longest time after the song is over, they stay there, Thomas' eyes closed as he imagines Craig's head as a balloon, floating up, up, up and away into an ink-black sky, only to be pulled backed down on a silver thread, into the arms of a boy he doesn't know, but he sometimes feels like he knows better than himself.

He smiles as Craig keeps stroking his hair.

...

18:09  
_dude i wish u could come here 2 stay for a week end_  
_u would rlly like tweek and token 2 i think_  
_but probly not the others_

18:12  
_you know what my moms like._  
_she says im not allowed to make the trip til im older._

18:15  
_i know_  
_it just sucks bc i wanna c u more than 1 time a month_  
_it feels like im keeping u secret from every1 or smth_

18:21  
_are you._  
_keeping me secret._  
_..._  
_craig?_

18:54  
_not on purpose_  
_not at 1st dude but_  
_idk_  
_ur my friend and_  
_denver is like a whole diffrent world_  
_just u and me_  
_is that bad?_  
_i still want u 2 visit tho_

18:58  
_its not bad. i know what you mean._  
_i like it this way to._  
_i can always come stay when we're older right._

19:03  
_right :)_

...

It's nearly the end of May, and the sun is blazing in a bright blue sky. The birds are chirping, the bushes are rustling in a gentle breeze, and they're out in Thomas' back yard, slurping at popsicles even though the air is fresh and the grass is dewy beneath them.

Thomas is wearing summer shorts and a cream colored tee, and his arms and legs are covered in goosebumps. Beside him, Craig's rolled up the sleeves of his dark grey hoodie and has kicked off his shoes and socks so that his toes are buried in the damp green grass.

They go between pointing out the rare cloud scudding across the blinding stretch of blue overhead, and watching Thomas' fat old cat prowl around the perimeter of the yard, occasionally throwing himself at a butterfly or a bee.

A stray drip of blue juice (he got raspberry flavor) trails down over the back of his fingers, across his knuckles and onto his wrist – Thomas chases it with his tongue.

"I think I came to an answer," Craig says out of nowhere, mouth and fingers stained red.

"Ad adswer?" he asks around the side of his ice-lolly. Pulls away to lick his lips and swipe at his sticky chin.

"Yeah," he says, and then has to pause in order to catch an escapee droplet. "To if I like boys or girls. But I'm not totally sure."

The older boy pauses, thinking back on the conversation they'd had over half a year ago now. " _Ff-fuck_. I completely –  _shitface_  – forgot about that." Thomas sends Craig a contrite look over the top of his popsicle. "I'm sorry."

Snorting and taking a bite out of his like his teeth are made of stone (Thomas winces because  _ow_ ), Craig raises his eyebrows at him. "Figured as much." Shrugs one shoulder. "It's okay, I don't really mind."

Falling back into their easy silence, Thomas watches Craig finish his lolly in record time, and then splay his fingers out to wipe them in the grass.

A large, gangly-legged mosquito flails its way past them and, after a long and arduous flight, stops for a rest on one of the white sheets his mom hung out to dry that morning. One of Thomas' neighbours is barbecuing something that smells  _delicious_ \- like fried onion and fresh-ground burger. Even though they've both just eaten, Thomas' stomach gives a little gurgle of, ' _me too, please_.'

" _Aw, shit-a-brick_. What did you find out?" asks Thomas, as he comes to the end of his own popsicles, sucking the last of the sugary juice off of the little wooden stick before setting it down beside him, and licking at his hands too.

"It's stupid," says Craig, looking away across the yard as he speaks. "But I think I might like boys more after all."

"Why's that stupid?"

All he gets is a shrug.

"Is it 'cause you found someone you like?" He wonders if it's Tweek.

(It would make sense. Thomas thinks it would be easy to like someone like that. Someone who writes you silly songs and makes you bottomless mugs and is learning to hold onto you instead of running away when he gets scared.)

"Mm, no," says Craig, though the way his cheeks start going pink makes it clear he's not being totally honest.

Deciding not to push, Thomas says, "How'd you know, then?"

"One of my friends, Clyde, said he can't stop thinking about girls. About how 'squidgy and rocking' they are and how he wants a hot girlfriend." Craig lowers himself down into the grass until he's lying flat, arms folding behind his head and his red mouth pursing. "I listened, and I thought about it... and I didn't get it at all."

" _Right?_ " says Thomas, perhaps a little more enthusiastically than he's meant to. Because really, getting a girlfriend is the furthest thing from his mind. " _Holy shitballs_."

"So I asked Token why he's with Nichole and he said, ' _Because I'm happy when I'm around her, and she gives me the spins_.'"

"Ew. The  _spins_?" In Thomas' opinion, that sounds gross.  _Really_  gross.

"I think he meant like 'butterflies'. Just... more."

"Oh.  _Aw, shit_. That's not so bad, then."

Following Craig's example, Thomas sinks down backwards until his lying flat, and stretches out beside the younger boy. He stares up into the sky and thinks about how love seems so weird and complicated.

"I kissed a girl once, back in first grade," says Craig, voice quieter now that their heads are closer together. "It was during recess, by the water fountain outside the classroom."

"Did you get  _the spins_?" Thomas jokes, tilting his head to the side so he can see Craig's profile.

"Nope. Didn't feeling anything, I don't think."

The next thing that comes out of Thomas' mouth rushes over his tongue before he's even had the chance to think it through. "What about with boys?  _Cocksucker_. You ever kissed one?"

Craig's head rolls to the side, and their faces are much closer this way than Thomas realized. His heart gives one of its funny little twitches when Craig blinks big, blue eyes at him. "No," he says. "Have you?"

Thomas shakes his head, wondering why his cheeks are starting to get hot.

They lie there, staring into each other's faces, for so long that the little hiccup in his heart develops into a full-blown  _lurch_.

"Wanna—  _hh-holy shit_." He gulps around the words, wondering if he's going mad. "Wanna try it out? See if it works?"

"You mean..." Craig blinks at him once, slowly. "Here? With you?"

It's easier to nod than try to speak around the embarrassment, so he does just that.

"Right now?"

Nods again.

They stare a little longer, but then Craig's turning onto his side and pushing up on one elbow, so he's looking down at Thomas.

Breath washes over his lips and chin, and his insides start dancing to a funny tune as the younger boys leans closer.

Their mouths come together in a noisy, sticky peck, and when Craig withdraws they look at each other for a long moment.

Somewhere at the bottom of the yard, the cat yowls.

"You got them? The spins?" Thomas says, once his heart isn't jumping about quite as much.

"Mmn. I think so," his friend says with a concentrated frown, rolling over onto his back. "I feel like my bones just turned to rubber."

At that, Thomas laughs.

"Me too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy, i am soooo crap at writing songs/ballads/sonnets/poems in general so i apologise. at least i can blame the sub-par lyrics on the fact that song-writer Tweek is only 11... LOL.
> 
> (it was still stupidly fun to write, though) :'))


	3. greed is not a good thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. have had. a bad day. :'(
> 
> so i'll say thank you for the comments last chapter right here (THANK YOU, YOU LOVELY, WONDERFUL PEOPLE <333), and i'll reply to them properly tomorrow, when i'm not feeling all self-pitying and gross. 
> 
> in the meantime, here. have the monster chapter to end all monster chapters. oh and also a [**playlist**](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLiUaElwXV5IBdoCXCA-CSgcHIMYTO4jrf) i knocked together for this fic too.
> 
> OH and the boys ages this chapter:  
> thomas 13-14 (7th-8th grade/middle school)  
> craig 12-13 (6th-7th grade - so elementary/middle school)

Somewhere after the first kiss, Thomas becomes greedy.

...

It starts with hugging his friend back tightly at the station one day.

(It's about a week after the younger boy told him Tweek's been hugging him just before Craig leaves. Only a few hours ago, this is what Craig’s fake boyfriend was doing.)

The summer sun soaks through their backs and the air is a wall of buzzing noise around them. It's all squeezing ribs and grinning into sharp shoulders, not caring how people jostle past them in the rush to board their trains.

He pecks Craig's cheek as he pulls away and wonders if he's the first person to ever do that too.

Wonders if another boy who's waiting back in South Park, had gone up on his tiptoes to kiss Craig Tucker's cheek when he said goodbye, and if he did, had Craig looked as startled like he does now?

Did he blink hard and open a silent mouth like he'd lost all the words he'd planned to say? Did he look around them like he was embarrassed to be seen?

Thomas can't help but grin, even though his heart  _squeezes_.

...

From there it grows.

...

In the thick, angry sheets of September rain they get into an argument about sharing Thomas' bike. It's precious to Thomas because biking was something his dad taught him – one of his few happy memories with the man he's never really known. He let Craig borrow his scooter, didn't he? He doesn't  _want_  to take turns, even if that means he's being rude.

And then Craig gets upset because he shares  _his_  precious things with Thomas, without even being asked.

He shouts about how he shares his feelings, and his stories, and he shares every visit to his Grandma’s. How he shares Tweek's songs and he even shared some of his secrets – and here's Thomas, drenched through to the bone like a half-drowned rat, and he can't even share a stupid bike which is gonna rust out here anyway.

Both bike and scooter are dropped into the muck with thumps and clatters as Craig turns to stomp away and Thomas, head ready to explode with a thousand cut-off curses (not all of them because of his Tourette's), chases after, desperate.

"Stop," he shouts through the icy, hammering rain. "Craig, you're –  _fuck, fuck it, stupid shit_  – being a  _douche_."

 _That_  gets his attention. They've never called each other names before.

They've also never hit each other until now, but that doesn't stop them.

Dragging each other down, they wallop and smack and kick, churning up mud and grit and clumps of grass which sticks to skin, gets caught in hair, washes right off of them under the bruising force of the rain. But mud splatters and grass stains, and no matter how much rain falls, they're not going to magically get clean again.

Somewhere in between that first hit and their frenzied scrambling in the dirt, the punches become softer, and the fighting turns to roughhousing. They're still boys and so they still end up bleeding and bruised from it, but it isn't quite as angry at the end as it is the beginning.

After a small eternity they collapse, panting, in a heap of shivery, worn out limbs and dirt they'll get into serious trouble for later.

They lie in the swampy brown grass and they look at each other. They look away.

Thomas swears. So does Craig. For a long while, that's all that they do.

(It almost becomes a competition of its own.)

Eventually they pull each other to their feet. Craig looks down at him through a mask of dripping sludge, hair stuck up in crazy spikes on one side of his head, and a swelling bruise on his cheek from their fierce grappling.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he looks so sad that Thomas forgets to worry over who was in the right and who was in the wrong. He forgets the rush of fear at the thought of Craig going away and taking all his stories with him.

There is another kiss.

It smells like cloying dirt and crushed grass.

It tastes like copper from Thomas' cut lip.

...

12:23  
_are you with Tweek right now._

12:55  
_yh dude we r playing super mario_

12:59  
_remember that time in the book shop._  
_where you told me about how he would be scared of living forever._

13:05  
_i remember_  
_that was when u found that book about the space warriors eating star dust_

13:08  
_lol. yeah. that one._  
_well i found a song that reminded me of that._  
_i think he would like it. could you show him._  
_if you dont mind._

13:10  
_cool yh send it over_

13:11  
_[watch?v=h3lWwMHFhnA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h3lWwMHFhnA)_  
_what does he think._  
?  
_craig?_

13:38  
_it made him cry_

13:39  
_oh god im sorry._  
_i thuoght for ure hed like it.  
im sorry_

13:41  
_no tommy_  
_he loves it_  
_so do i_

13:44  
_oh_  
_good._  
im gkad.  
*im glad.

13:45  
_its great_  
thank u :) x

_..._

Before sitting down for the delayed Thanksgiving feast that Grandma Tucker is holding at her house for both of their families, he and Craig are sent to wash their hands in the downstairs bathroom. The tiles are covered in a garish floral print; the basin, toilet and bath are a pastel green; there are about two dozen bottles of lotion cluttering up the windowsill; and the small, cramped space is suffused with the smell of bleach-based cleaner and cloying talc.

Craig's been saying he doesn't feel well all morning, has been snappy with Ruby and petulant with his parents. He hasn't talked about why he's in a grump and isn't looking forward to the huge meal like they haven't been talking about it over the phone all week long, so Thomas can only assume he's moody about something that happened at school yesterday.

Knocking into Craig's side as the taller boy picks up the bar of baby pink soap, the blonde sticks his tongue out at the other boy when he gets a slightly green-faced glower.

Thomas nudges Craig a second time, when it becomes clear that the other boy is trying to avoid talking.

Still all he gets is a sigh, and so he digs him in the ribs.

The younger boy yelps.

Slipping out of his hands with a pinging  _sm-smack_ , the soap clunks into the side of the basin, and skids so fast around the rim it looks like it's going to try flying.

Thankfully, it doesn't. (It just sort of slides back down towards the plughole like a sad, fat pink penguin on a green icecap.)

Both boys release sigh of relief.

"Dude, don't do that again," Craig says, pausing halfway to the faucet just to glare at Thomas and his outstretched fingers.

" _Aw, shit_. Then tell me why you're in a mood," he says.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You're -  _fuck me_  - being kind of a downer," Thomas says, finally giving in to his frown. "I thought you were looking forward to this?"

There's a long, put-upon sigh. "I was."

"But...?"

"But I... ate too much at Tweek's on Thursday," Craig admits, clearly feeling sorry for himself. "His mom and dad kept piling my plate higher and higher and Tweek had to save me when I started heaving." A pause. "He pushed me out the back door onto the patio and I threw up all over Mrs Tweak's favorite potted azalea."

It's mean, but Thomas can't hold back a snort of laughter. "Why didn't you –  _cockmaster_  – just tell them you were full?"

Flushing, Craig says, "Dude, I felt bad because I slept in Tweek's bed with him when I'm not meant to, and Mr Tweak caught us. He started  _giving us the talk_  as he was carving the turkey and then he kept making disappointed sounds every time I stopped eating or drinking. It was the worst." He peers down at his wet, soapy hands like he's having war flashbacks. "I don't ever want to see green bean casserole ever again."

Thomas, who's Thanksgiving Day had included him eating a lukewarm Thai takeout on his own because his mom had been called in for an emergency shift at the hospital, thinks that doesn't sound so bad at all. Even 'the talk' part, since he had it from his mom recently, and  _she'd_  used anatomically correct models she'd borrowed from work to help make her point. (He never, ever wants to look at a vagina again – plastic or otherwise.)

Besides, the thought of Craig having not one family,  _but two_  to complain about is something that makes him want to roll his eyes. "Well tough luck.  _Aw, shithead_. Because you're  _gonna_. And you're gonna stop whining."

"Wow." His friend gives him a flat look that says he is not impressed, and then flicks water at him. "You're heartless."

Reaching up, he cuffs the other boy upside the head. Even if Craig  _is_  taller than him by more than a foot now, he can still pull the 'older kid' card. "Quit feeling –  _stupid douchebag_  – sorry for yourself. You're acting like a baby."

Finally, Craig's mouth twitches up into a small, reluctant smile. "You sound just like Tweek."

Those words suffuse him with a burst of warmth he doesn't know how to deal with and so, flustered for reasons he can't express, he snatches the runaway-soap and starts scrubbing at his hands. "Sh-shush," he says, all blustering growl.

It only gets worse when Craig leans over and presses his lips to the top of Thomas' head.

...

"This one's called, ' _Don't trust Mrs Mackleroy_ '," says Craig, leaning back against the radiator next to Thomas and adjusting his grip on the cheap, beat up old guitar he brought with him this visit.

They're pressed together from shoulder to hip and hip to knee, huddled under a blanket, and still they're half frozen. He thinks that Craig's trying to keep his mind off the cold – since he knows how much Thomas hates this time of year – by going through all of the songs his fake boyfriend's made up over the years. (It's working, but Thomas is hesitant to let on in case he decides to stop singing.)

It's been snowing continuously for the last few days now (even though it's almost March already), and Craig's due to leave this evening. Since there was an accident of the rail line, Thomas' mom will be driving him back when she finishes work. Winter is the  _worst_ and he normally tries his best to stay inside to avoid it, but his heart's been racing at the thought of taking Craig home through gloom and catching a brief glimpse of South Park.

As Craig starts strumming a simple set of chords, Thomas settles his head down on his friend’s bobbing shoulder and closes his eyes.

 _"So Satan is a dickhole_  
_and his son is fucking crazy,_  
_but no king or prince of darkness_  
_could compare to this one lady._  
_She'll chop off your balls_  
_if you ask to use the hall pass,_  
_and she'll string you up right by your guts  
if you turn up late to her class._

 _"Don't trust what she says,_  
_no, don't trust this witch._  
_Mrs Mackleroy's evil._  
_She's a cold, heartless bitch."_

The tune is surprisingly lively, and the words sharp and high in a way that doesn't sound easy for Craig to replicate. Thomas imagines another boy singing it – a boy with a mug of coffee he keeps spilling over his hands, and a voice that naturally wavers on the longer notes.

 _"We got a president in power_  
_who we all just want to smack,_  
_and 'bout twenty other countries_  
_tryin'a stab us in the back._  
_But this one goddamn lady,_  
_she's a coldblooded shite,_  
_who'd screw us all over_  
_just to prove she was right._

 _"Don't trust this old hag,_  
_no, don't trust this witch._  
_Mrs Mackleroy's evil._  
_She's a shrivelled up bitch._

 _"I'd rather face Geoffrey or maybe his mom_  
\- heck, I'd even take Ramsay -  
than sit through the classes  
of the sour-faced, flouncy,  
real fucked up twat  
with her crappy 'time out' stool  
and her, 'No shrieking! Stop twitching!'  
and, 'I hope you shits fail school!'"

At some point the younger boy slides his half-frozen toes up against Thomas' ankle and the blonde kicks him playfully away. He can’t stop grinning at the pure hatred in the words, and the surprizing amount of cussing – he hadn't thought that Craig's fake boyfriend would have such a bad vocabulary. But somehow... it makes him feel better about his tics. Like maybe with Craig and his friends, he'd be accepted. If even sweet Tweek swears, then maybe there'd be nothing wrong with him having Tourette's.

" _Don't trust all her lies,_  
_no, don't trust this witch._  
_Mrs Mackleroy's evil._  
_She's a cruel tempered bitch._

" _If at this point you're still lost,_  
_then you're a lost fucking cause,_  
_'cause no one on Earth_  
_could survive all her laws._  
_If she doesn't make Clyde cry_  
_at least once a week,_  
_or have Jimmy get angry_  
_for calling Timmy a freak,_  
_or make Cartman seem pleasant_  
_without even trying,_  
_or send Kyle to detention_  
_just for saying she's lying,_  
_then she's burning our homework,_  
_she's faking our grades,_  
_she's making us work_  
_like we're her personal slaves._ "

As the song reaches its crescendo, Craig's voice has risen almost to a shout, his strumming of the guitar fast and furious. The cheery, chipper tone is transformed into a rasping snarl that sends a shock up Thomas' spine. He turns to peer up at the other boy, eyes wide, to see his cheeks pinks with the effort of keeping up the fierce pace.

And then it stops.

There's a brief pause where Craig struggles to catch his breath, before he finishes a final round of the chorus. This time his voice is a lot softer – not much more than a hum in the back of Thomas’ head.

" _So please don't you trust her,_  
_no, don't trust this witch._  
_'Cause Mrs Mackleroy's evil._  
_She's a real fucked up bitch."_

They sit in silence after Craig finishes singing, the same as they always do, and Thomas enjoys that moment of odd  _closeness_  he feels to the stranger who pours all of his heart and soul into his songs, and makes someone as calm and quiet as Craig light up.

" _Shit, fucking— fuck_. Even with all the swearing, he makes it sound good," Thomas says at length. "Normal. Sort of special."

With a shocking level of perception for a twelve year old, the taller boy pulls away to frown at him. "You  _are_  special, dude."

And even though Thomas knows it's not true, he smiles at the fire in his closest friend's eyes – goes to peck his still-flushed cheek, and pulls away with a smile that makes his face hurt when the other boy turns and kisses him full on the mouth instead.

...

03:46  
_i miss you._  
_i wish you were here._  
_i hate middle school. i hate the other kids._  
_i just want it to stop hurting._  
_everything sucks._

03:47  
_[watch?v=XaKr98ktoxU](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XaKr98ktoxU)_

03:53  
_thank you._

03:53  
_if u ever need 2 talk then phone me_  
_any time any day_  
_okay tommy? x_

03:57  
_okay craig. x_

...

" _Fuck it up_. I want to see. Come on, smile," Thomas says, wheedling, as they walk out of Union Station through the misting spring rain.

"Stop it," Craig says, words muffled through his tightly pursed lips. He turns his face away and covers his mouth when Thomas pokes him in the cheek.

"Please?" he tries puppy dog eyes, tries shaking Craig's arm and pouting even though he knows he's got to look stupid. Being goofy works for some people but it doesn't work for Thomas. He's too serious by half, most of the time, for it to look any good. "Just a quick glance?"

" _No_." The younger boy turns his face in the opposite direction and pushes Thomas away. "It's bad enough Tweek made me let him check they weren't rigged with explosives."

(Thomas can feel himself turn pink with suppressed laughter at the mental image.)

When no amount of bothering and bugging draws any favorable results over the course of the bus ride out into the suburbs, to the area Thomas lives in, he sighs.

Thinks as they clamber off onto the empty, grey street, _it's not going to work but I might as well go for it_. Turns pink again, but this time for a totally different reason.

He shuffles to a halt on the corner just outside his front yard and, the second Craig turns, to look back at him, blurts out, " _Aw, cocksucker_. If you let me see, then I'll kiss you. Like –  _ff-fuck_  – like, a proper kiss."

Craig stops.

Squints at him.

Takes in Thomas' red face and the way he's toeing at a lump of gum on the ground. Starts going red himself.

"Fine," he says, like Thomas is driving a really hard bargain. "But only really quick."

The blonde looks up with a hiccup in his heart, and smiles.

His friend opens his mouth wide enough for him to see the shiny metal tracking and the little blue elastics set in the middle of each tooth.

Thomas decides that Craig Tucker suits having braces.

...

18:05  
_omg_  
_he made stripe a cloak when i was gone_  
_it says 'super stripe'_

18:06  
_aw cute._

18:07  
_it would b if he stopped trying 2 eat it_

18:08  
_no._  
_i meant you two._

18:09  
_wat._  
_dude._

18:10  
_the cutest. x_

18:10 _  
TOMMY._

...

Thomas' heart is in his throat, beating like it's going to try and jump right out into the open.

He's scared that if he breathes too loudly, this moment's going to end. He'll start cursing, or he'll startle and knock the iPad off the stand it's charging on, on the little coffee table next to the couch. And then Craig will be mad and Ruby will laugh and _Tweek_ —

Tweek, who's finally answered a Skype mic call after sending Craig a series of indecipherable texts, is  _for the first time_  speaking loud enough for Thomas to hear. He's shaking—

Thomas is  _actually shaking_.

" _Craig – nnGAH - Cartman wouldn't shut the f-fuck up about m-my drawing. He wouldn't— he tore— so I, I punched him and maybe kicked hi-m and he told my parents, and now they're g-gonna sell me off to-- to the Mongolians, man." A sob. "I d-don't wanna be a, a Mongolian again. One time was enou-uuu-ugh_." The sobs are muffled, and the high, reedy voice goes out of focus on the other end of the iPad.

"What? What'd that fat turd say?" Craig sits up so straight on the floral-print couch, shoving closer to the iPad so that he dislodges Ruby, who goes tumbling to the floor with an incensed yelp. Thomas helps pull her to her feet, and puts a trembling finger to his lips that has her rolling her eyes and stomping out of the living room.

" _Rraugh. H-he said that – igh – he could draw better with his ass and, a-and Kenny said he'd— that he'd – eugh – pay to see him t-try and called hi-m a bl-blubber butt and e-everyone laugh so he – nnnf – grabbed my picture a-aaand he – tore – it – uuuup._ "

"I'll  _kill_  him." Craig's on his feet in a heartbeat, pacing back and forth, and all Thomas can do is watch, wide-eyed. "I'll kill him with my  _bare hands_."

This just makes Tweek cry even louder, soul destroying wails that hurt Thomas' escapee heart just as much as they hurt his ears. " _BUT THEN Y-YOU'LL GO-OO-O TO PRI-SON-NN A-AN— AUGH— AND I'LL NN-NEVER SEE YOU – HIC – AGAI-NN_."

Apparently unable to formulate any other kinds of words, Tweek breaks down into another round of sobbing.

That's it, Thomas thinks.

Grabs Craig the next time the boy goes stomping past him, and hauls him back down onto the couch cushions with all of his might. Caught unawares, the boy tumbles, unable to do much more than flail silently and wheeze as Thomas swings himself around and sits all of his weight on Craig's stomach.

Pressing a palm down over the stupid younger boy's lips when he sucks in a deep breath like he's going to say something rude, Thomas mouths very carefully, ' _Calm._ Down. _You're scaring him._ '

The moment he pulls his hand away, Craig starts pushing at Thomas until he shuffles backwards, down onto his legs so he can lever himself upright. They're almost nose-to-nose, the younger boy's blue eyes so close that they blur, and hot breath stutters out between them.

In the background Tweek's been reduced to bawling hysteria, interspersed with the occasional hiccup of, " _Don't even liiike e-eating meat and, and dum-mm-plings," and, "how'm I gonna – AGH – sn-sneak in your bir-birthday— hnnng— your birthday presents?_ "

"Tweek—"

" _I don't w-WANNA be tied – rrargh – to a horse. They have— they've got diseases and I'll get sick a-and I'll fall off and I'll – hrnng OH GOD – I'll break my fucking back man._ "

"Babe, listen—"

" _And then the— then the Asian girls won't, won't draw us together be-because who would ship a, a convicted mur— EURGH— murderer and a failed, p-paralysed Mongolian? Agh. And then my dad'll ha-have to shut the- the shop a-a-and he and mom'll starve to death beca-use he'll get nnn-no trade, for being a heartless bastard and, and, and CRAIG THAT IS WA-AY TOO MUCH PRESSURE. MONGOLIANS D-DON'T EVEN DRINK CO-O-OFFEEEE, CRAIIIG._ "

" _Tweek!_ "

There's a pause in the senseless shrieking, just long enough for Thomas to start getting flustered over the situation again. He's sat on Craig's lap and listening to his fake-boyfriend sobbing in the background, and isn't it kinda weird that his heart's still racing a mile a minute when he thinks too much about that?

He actually feels sort of dizzy, considering it – so he lifts up his hands and puts one on Craig's shoulders to steady himself, swallowing down a nervous tic as best he can – still has to muffle another string of swearwords straight after, into the crook of his elbow.

Craig doesn't seem to notice, just goes on staring into Thomas' eyes like that might give him the answers of how he should deal with this.

"Tweek, honey, listen to me. I won't kill him, okay? I'm sorry. I'm just angry at him for upsetting you." The white knuckled grip Craig has on the edge of the couch and the way his lip's trying to curl back in a snarl _does_ translate that pretty well. "I'll just smack him around a bit. Just for a while."

" _B-but Craig— wh-what if your— eurghh— your dad sells you to the, the M-Mongolians too?_ "

"Then we'll be together, won't we?"

" _Hrrng._ "

"Babe look, I've gotta stay here for my Gran's birthday party, but I'll come home first thing tomorrow. Until then you go to Token's, okay?"

" _To-Token's?_ " Tweek says through a hiccup.

"His house is walled in and he's got that gate guard, remember? He and his parents won't let anyone take you away."

This seems like a very weird way of dealing with the problem, Thomas thinks through the dryness of his mouth and the rush of heat to his face when Craig tilts forwards and rests their foreheads together.

" _And you're— you're gonna come g-get me tomorrow? You swear?_ "

"Yeah babe, I swear."

Tweek sniffles, and there's a tense moment of held breath on their end of the call, before the other boy finally speaks up. " _A-alright, Craig. Alright."_

All the tension goes out of the younger boy, who slumps forwards into Thomas, moving his head down onto the blonde's shoulder.

" Good— that's good. I'll see you soon," says Craig into the crook of his neck, making the hairs on the back of his nape stand up on end.

After a drawn out, slightly teary goodbye and another round of reassurances, Tweek hangs up.

They sit there, boneless, and Thomas wraps his arms around Craig in a loose hug that the younger boy returns.

Neither says a word for a very long time, but they don't need to. They don't kiss, either.

Thomas' heart just keeps on racing anyway.

(Very weird, he repeats to himself. Very, very weird.)

...

05:03  
_do u ever wonder y u even bother?_  
_idk i just_  
_i dont want to keep going round in circles_

07:09  
_im sorry craig. i only just woke up._  
_is everything alright._  
_craig._

07:14  
_its fine_  
_its nothing_

07:22  
_if you want to talk im here. x_

07:37  
_ok_

...

It's late summer.

They're in Thomas' room, lying side-by-side on the bed, above the covers, and they're staring up at the ceiling.

Beyond the open window the sky is an inky black, swamped by thick, roiling clouds that block out the moon and the stars. Their clothes stick to them even though they're lying in shorts and thin tees and they have the fan pointing down at them on full power. The AC broke a few nights ago, and now it's sweltering.

Their arms are brushing, and even that small point of contact feels like it's too much.

The air is heavy – stagnant, almost – but a current of metallic-tasting energy buzzes through the room. It sits on the back of Thomas' tongue like the brewing storm resting in the sky outside.

There's a tightness to Craig's expression that seems to be getting more and more commonplace during his visits. He's sullen and quieter than usual, and it takes Thomas a tiring amount of effort (since it isn't something that comes naturally to him) to remain cheery and upbeat enough that he draws a smile out of the younger boy.

He doesn't intrude on Craig's privacy by asking questions or pushing him to talk about it for fear that might make him withdraw further, but... the silence makes him ache in the most unpleasant way possible.

Unable to sleep and unwilling to break the tension between them, they lie deathly still, breathing in the hot air and trying not to let it weigh down on them.

It's got to be some time in the early hours of the morning when Craig finally starts talking. Even though it's jumbled and nonsensical, Thomas stays where he is, blinking itchy eyes up at the ceiling, and listens.

"He has this theory that PC Principal's an alien, because why not, y'know? All the time. All the time he's just... he's obsessed with it at the moment. And if it's not that, then it's government conspiracies or lies he thinks our parents are feeding us or horror stories about middle school. I have no idea where he would've even heard—"

Cutting himself off, the younger boy lets out slow huff of air.

Thomas imagines it's warm breath being expelled onto his face rather than the stifling breeze from the fan and shuts his eyes, feeling it stir his short, damp bangs against his forehead.

"And then there's Kenny, who keeps teasing, and digging, and I…"

A sound like Craig's rubbing his hand over his face. Swallowing.

"I guess it's fine. It's none of my business – it's not like we're actually... actually _real_. It's not like Tweek even notices, I don't think, but I don't like it. I really, really don't like him. Butting in, I mean."

A pause, and then, "Or even just in general."

Craig's arm shifts slightly against his, pressing into a tender, yellowed bruise close to his wrist. The silence stretches around them.

"I had a dream where we didn't live in South Park. We went to a normal school with normal teachers and normal classmates. We weren't faking. We were normal too. It was... it was good. And then I woke up."

The air he's inhaling settles over his heart until it aches. He's hyperaware of the younger boy moving, of him reaching out to brush his fingers over Thomas' knuckles – a tiny, hesitant gesture that makes his breath stutter out.

Complies with the unspoken request without having to think it over– just uncurls his fist and turns his palm upright. Doesn't even flinch at the clamminess as Craig entwines their fingers together like someone who's had a lot of practice at this. For the blonde, this is the first time he's ever held hands with anyone aside from his own mom.

Thomas wonders if it feels unnatural to Craig, too.

(Imagines another boy beside him. Another boy with a shake in his hands and a strained voice that he can't put a face to.)

He tightens his grip reflexively, trying to chase after the image. Craig echoes the motion, and Thomas wonders if...

"I'm scared I'm gonna mess this up," says his closest friend in the quietest, shakiest whisper. "I'm scared it's all gonna backfire."

Still, Thomas has no words.

No advice.

No consolation.

No help to offer.

So he just lies there, and holds on, and listens to Craig talk about things that make no sense at all.

Those words spoken to him in the dark, dead stillness of the early morning, sit with him for weeks after.

...

15:27  
_i got some other songs i thought tweek might like._  
_[watch?v=R2LQdh42neg](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2LQdh42neg)_  
_[watch?v=daVtrlNVeuw](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=daVtrlNVeuw)_  
_[watch?v=0XZJ5mD6nSU](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0XZJ5mD6nSU)_

15:45  
_did u mean tweek would like them or that they make u think of him._

15:47  
_honestly both._

15:48  
_u think about him alot dude_

15:49  
_almost as much as you do._

15:50  
_dout that_

15:55  
_youd be surprized._

15:57  
_ill send them 2 him. x_

16:04  
_:) x_

...

"You've been talking about Tweek for years," says Thomas to his chicken noodle soup. "You've been telling me –  _bastard_  – your stories and singing me his songs, and I've even heard his voice." He hunches his shoulders like that might hold off the early November chill encroaching on the house in icy, creeping fingers.

Pausing mid-slurp, Craig meets his eyes over the table. Their feet brush underneath, and the most that the sensation elicits is a brief skip of his heart.

Butterflies don't flutter their wings in his stomach like they did in the garden almost a year and a half ago.

His arms and legs are solid flesh and bone. Not rubber. Not ever anymore.

He doesn't get the spins when he’s with Craig.

Thomas wonders what that means, and why he presses the side of his foot against Craig's anyway. Supposes that after years of being physically close to each other, those sorts of feelings wear off.

(Or maybe it doesn't, if you're actually in love. He doesn't know – he's only fourteen, after all. Not exactly brimming with worldly knowledge or romantic experience.)

He guesses that they're still like this with each other out of habit, and because it's comforting, being able to reach out and touch.

"I have," says Craig, voice as flat as it always is, these days. Grandma Tucker keeps saying it's because he's a teenager now and that, ' _All teenaged boys are moody little shits_ ,' but Thomas doesn't think so.

Craig's unhappy – has been for a long time, now, and it only gets worse the longer that he bottles it up.

" _Cocknose, little motherfucker_. I don't know what he looks like," says Thomas. "You never told me."

 _I need to have a face to put to the boy_ , is what he doesn't say.

Shrugging, Craig pokes at his soup with his spoon. "You never asked."

"I'm asking now."

For some reason, this makes Craig's countenance soften. He looks up at Thomas and even though he doesn't smile, Thomas can tell by the way the crease in his brow disappears, that he at least isn't quite as miserable.

(Even that's a miracle these days, when discussing their favorite subject.)

"He's blonde like you, but his hair's longer and wilder. Lighter, too. And he's skinny." Craig sighs – rubs his forehead with his free hand, like just describing the other boy is draining. "Sort of like a human dandelion."

Setting down his spoon, Thomas grips the edge of the table. Tries not to lean too far forward or look too interested.

"What color are his eyes?" He always imagined them bright, bright blue – at once darker and warmer than Craig's. The same color as the sky in the height of summer.

"Green," says Craig. "With little flecks of brown and gold."

Like leaves on a tree starting to turn crisp from the cold weather, Thomas thinks. Like a forest in early Fall. Feels his heart hammering like it's saying,  _yes, that's right, perfect._

(A hundred times more suitable that blue.)

"What's your favorite thing about how he looks?" he asks perhaps a little too eagerly, and flushes when Craig raises an eyebrow at him. "What?  _Stupid shit_. I want to see him through your eyes."

They look at each other for a long moment, like neither of them really wants to admit to themselves what they're seeing reflected back between them yet.

(It won't stay buried for much longer, but today isn't the day to say it.)

"His smile," Craig says at length, the corner of his mouth curving up just the smallest fraction. "He smiles like he's never done it before. Like it's the first time ever." He spins his spoon around in his bowl and they both lower their eyes to watch the slow, scraping movement. "His cheek twitches and he sort of looks manic."

Shutting his eyes for a long moment, Thomas tries to picture this boy that's been living in his head for the last three years.

"Is he—  _fucking cock_ — is he tall or short?" he says when he looks back up to find Craig staring at him.

"Short," says Craig. "Shorter than you."

Not that that's saying much, since Thomas has finally hit a growth spurt. He might still be small next to half-giant Craig Tucker, but Thomas' dad is tall (at least, that's what his mom always says; he doesn't personally remember), so he'll likely end up somewhere above average too.

"You know, I can just show you a picture, Tommy," says Craig after another short pause. "I've got a hundred of him on my cell."

Thomas shakes his head so hard he's surprised it doesn't spin right off his shoulders. "N-no.  _Shit, fuck it up_. No need. It's fine."

Fights back the nonsensical lump rising up in his throat, and the aching thud of his heart. He wants to see – he wants it  _so badly_.

But it's better this way, he knows. If he keeps Tweek Tweak as an enigma – as a fantastical being in his head, removed from reality like the main characters in all of his fantasy novels – then it won't be too hard to know that they aren't actually friends.

Hearing about Craig's fake boyfriend and all their adventures is one thing; seeing the real deal is something else entirely.

So the conversation trails off, sputtering out like smoke in a rainstorm. They return to their bowls of soup and Craig's almost-smile slips away.

Their feet stay pressed together under the table.

...

It's three days before Christmas when Thomas finally works it out.

...

"I've known for a while now," says Craig, hanging his head and hiding his swollen pink eyes. "That I love him."

They're sat together on the same bench as always, in the park they go to outside of Grandma Tucker's whenever Ruby throws a tantrum, or when they need some space to think.

Thomas leans back and stares at the solid white sky, tucking numb hands into his pockets and trying hard not to shake. Where Craig is bent double, tucked in close to himself, Thomas is stretched out. It doesn't make much of a difference – he's still far shorter than the other boy, even after shooting up a solid three inches in half a year.

Craig's confession doesn't surprize him; he first suspected as much back in the garden, when they'd traded their first kisses away like shiny Chinpokomon cards.

" _Sh-shit_. How long?" he asks, because he can't think of anything supportive to say around the heaviness in his gut.

His friend lets out a shuddering breath and then sniffs it back in again. "Since the beginning."

That catches Thomas by the throat. (Doesn't make any sense.) "What?  _Fuck, fuck 'em_. Why did you lie about it?"

A groan of laughter like bending metal has him twisting around to stare at Craig. "Why would I share that with _anyone_? I wanted to ignore it. I wanted to pretend it wasn't there, because that way it wouldn't hurt so much." The younger boy sinks his fingers into the hair underneath his chullo hat and digs the heels of his palms harder into his eyes. "It's bad enough figuring out you like a straight boy and not even knowing if you’re gay and it's every boy, or if he's just that  _one exception_."

Somehow this makes everything so much worse.

Thomas is caught between wanting to reach out to comfort him, and needing to get up and walk away. Walk away until he doesn't feel like he's going to be sick with the guilt churning up in his gut.

How hadn't he noticed sooner? He should have known something was up. No little boy talks about their friend as much as Craig always has – not without there being something more there. And all this time, Thomas has been asking about Tweek for  _himself_  – not out of friendship or interest in  _Craig's_ feelings.

He's been an awful, awful friend.

"Craig..." He trails off before he's even started, at a loss.

"Do you know how much it fucking sucks being around someone you love without any kind of acknowledgement? How I keep getting my stupid damn hopes up every time he writes me a poem or sings me a song or... or makes me a new gift?" He scrubs his hands over his face. "A-and then all these things I give back to him, all the ways I show him I care, he just takes for granted.

“I don't remember how ma-many times I've tried to confess – have said the words in ways that  _no one_  could ever get confused over – and he still just thinks I'm telling him he's my best— my best friend—"

Overtaken by a silent sob, Craig curls further into himself.

And Thomas decides then and there to do the right thing. To do what a  _real_  friend would have done in the first place.

He reaches out and pulls his friend towards him, into his arms. He doesn't say  _it'll be alright_ , or  _we'll figure it out_ , because for all he knows, it won't be and they’ll never get around it. If there's one thing Thomas has known about the world from a very young age, it's that it's an unfair place, where bad things happen to good people without rhyme or reason.

Sometimes, there's nothing to do but embrace it.

The younger boy leans on him hard, wet face against his neck and arms circling around him like a vice. All Thomas can do is wrap his arms around his closest friend and rub his back.

Fights the sting in his eyes and the heaviness in his gut that says loud and clear:

Craig's isn't the only heart Tweek Tweak is going to break without even knowing.

At least for Thomas, though, it's only the idea of this boy that he's fallen in love with.

At least it isn't the real deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> er... surprise? heh heh..


	4. there's a hole in my bucket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this dang story keeps on growing. so go on, have another monster chapter. ;))
> 
> (beware ye, of OCs, angst and many spelling/grammatical mistakes. from hereon in, tis badly edited, and the author is half-asleep.)
> 
> OH and the boys ages this chapter:  
> thomas: 14-15 (8th-9th grade/freshman. so middle school-high school)  
> craig: 13-14 (7th-8th grade. middle school!)

After that conversation, they stop touching. They stop kissing.

Talking becomes strained, for the fact that neither boy wants to talk about Tweek Tweak anymore – except that they both desperately do.

Sometimes the kindest thing to do to yourself is to just stop pretending everything's alright, and that it'll all sort itself out.

So they stop pretending. They lie in bed day after day watching movies, and occasionally drag themselves up out of their slump on the mattress, to slump down on the couch instead. They overindulge in junk food and self-pity, working their way through all the good shows on Netflix, and then all of the bad.

They watch comedies without laughing, horrors without a single shiver of fear.

They stay up late with no reason to. They lie on their backs and stare up at the ceiling in the dark, and they wallow in their private thoughts and feelings.

Even when Thomas breaks that silence one night to whisper to Craig, "I think your stories made me love Tweek too," nothing changes. Craig just rolls his head to one side and peers at Tommy in the gloom, and that's it.

Nothing.

Visits turn into dull, miserable affairs where the most comfort and contact they get from each other are their stiff hugs at the station, and the press of their limbs when they're slouched down together in front of their most recent show.

Suddenly, without the companionship of their kisses, or the sweet suggestion of something more, Thomas feels... empty. Hollowed out.

He hadn't realised how much he would miss something as simple as being able to reach out and twine their hands together, or comb his fingers through Craig's hair, or slide his foot against Craig's under the table. He wants it back.

Thomas wants it back  _desperately_ , but doesn't know how to ask for it, now that both of their feelings are out in the open. He doesn't want to keep pushing for affection like some kind of needy, clingy boyfriend. That isn't his place.

But his feeling leak over into his school life. He works on his grades and he tries harder to interact with his classmates.

Joins a study group. Gets kicked out for being a distraction.

Tries to join track club. Fails to run at the required skill level.

Applies for a part in the school play. Is offered only Stage Hand.

Takes it anyway.

Meets other kids working on the set, the costumes and the props, all of them from different classes and years. They're mostly theatre and Broadway enthusiasts, and they're almost all interested in glee club and band practice, textiles and arts. Thomas sticks out like a sore thumb.

But it's a start. It's something to do during his lunch breaks, and somewhere to go after a long day of miserable, drawn out classes with the other kids rolling their eyes and groaning at him, and the teachers sending him to sit in the corners for causing disruptions he can't control.

And then one Monday at the tail end of the first semester in eighth grade, after a particularly bad weekend spent holed in with Craig watching  _Steven Universe_  and feeling like he wanted to curl up and cry, he snaps.

One of the popular boys – this kid everyone calls Mickey, even though his name is Dave – crows and jeers at him in the hallway, right as Thomas is falling into a tic attack, limbs tensing and a stream of embarrassing foul language ricocheting off the lockers and the shiny, polished floor.

Thomas' eyes  _burn_  and his face  _burns_  and his insides  _burnburnburn_  with emotions he can't name, and as the boy goes past with his group of cool friends and his stupid, mean grin, Thomas does the only thing he can think of.

He reaches down, tugs off his shoe, and hurls it straight at the boy's head.

His hand-eye coordination has never been good, and he's a pretty weedy guy, but for once – for once – his aim is true.

The sharp, hard sole of his shoe smacks the boy right in the face.

There's a jeering and a whooping from the boy's friends, and he tries to turn and run as Mickey spins, grin gone, but it's hard to run when you've only got one shoe, and your body won't comply to the messages that your brain's sending it.

He falls.

The boy he hit catches him.

He doesn't try to retaliate a second time as he's dragged up to his feet, twitching and swearing, and a fist smacks him right in the jaw. Nor when the teacher catches them, and sends Thomas and the Mickey kid to the principal's office.

For the first time in his life, Thomas gets detention.

Strangely, it's the turning point for him, which makes school – and life in general – a little more tolerable.

He supposes it's difficult to hate someone when you're sent to clean the toilets together as punishment, and instead of doing the job, you end up being pushed back against a sink by one of the most popular boys in school and kissed to within an inch of your life.

Turns out Mickey isn't such a nasty guy after all. He just has a dumb sense of humor and a weird way of showing he's got a crush.

(Helps that he's good at using his tongue.)

So after that, maybe Thomas has a different kind of outlet for his feelings. It's not the same as what he had with Craig (sweet, innocent pecks and curling up together as Craig strummed his guitar and sung a song from a boy that Thomas loved), but that's a good thing. There's no way for Thomas to be reminded of Craig's gentle smiles when they're out under the bleachers by the football pitch, with his hands tangled in long brown hair and Mickey's mouth on his—

 _Well_. It's easier.

And it helps that there are no feelings for this popular, smart-mouthed boy with his weird need to hide that he's about as straight as a circle, and his irrational fear that everyone in school will ostracize him if they find out. Thomas doesn't care. He's not doing this because he likes the guy. He's doing it because he'll take what he can get.

...

13:44  
_[watch?v=ScLF6dwvMTo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ScLF6dwvMTo) _  
_[watch?v=Jej2f7tOsvI](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jej2f7tOsvI)_  
_[watch?v=hFVhKwtIPqc](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFVhKwtIPqc)_  
_i heard these and._  
_i wanted to send them._  
_i thought that they might help._  
_can't wait to see you again craig. x_

13:56  
_ok dude ive sent them to him._

14:01  
_to..._  
_to tweek._

14:03  
_yeah_

14:09  
_oh..._  
_okay._

14:18  
_see u soon tommy x_

...

Some time in Spring, he tells his mom he's gay, and as predicted, she shrugs it off easily – says that she's always suspected, and that she loves him regardless of which gender he likes, as long as he's safe and happy.

He's not sure that hand jobs in the janitors closet or dry humping in the locker room after hours constitutes as safe, and he doesn't really know if he's happy about it (or if he's happy at all), but it's something.

It makes Craig's visits more bearable.

Right up until it doesn't.

...

"What's that?"

They are, unsurprisingly, lounging around in Thomas' living room, even though the May sunshine is streaming through the windows in warm, dazzling yellows and golds. The buzz of insects in the yard is drowned out by the blare of the television, and the smell of the flowers his mom's set on the table from her most recent admirer is overpowered by the stink of burnt bacon and pancake batter.

Stomachs full of grease and sugar, they've collapsed down on opposite ends of the couch with cans of soda that would send Thomas' mom loopy if she saw them drinking it.

At the question, Thomas tears his eyes away from the TV screen – they're watching  _Harmonquest_  at the older boy's insistence – and blinks across the couch cushions at Craig. Unsurprisingly, he's frowning. (It seems to be his go-to expression, these days.)

"What's what?" Thomas asks, taking a slurp from his mouth-numbingly sweet soda and wrinkling his nose at the bubbles.

"That mark," Craig says with a nod in Thomas'direction. "On your neck."

Heat rises to Thomas' cheeks in realization, and he tugs at the collar of his shirt, though he knows it won't cover the mark. For all that Mickey insists on keeping quiet about whatever the heck it is they're doing together, the guy uses about as much forethought as you'd expect from a brick wall.

" _Aw, shit_. It's nothing," says Thomas, looking back at the television, and hoping that's stopped the conversation in its tracks.

No such luck.

"It's a hickey," Craig says, in a flat sort of voice. "You've got a hickey."

Thomas rolls his eyes, trying to ignore the way that Craig's intense blue stare makes his heart do an unexpected hiccup. "Yeah," he says, shrugging in bluff. "I do."

"Who gave it to you?"

" _Godfuckingdamnit_. Just some boy at school."

Craig's frown intensifies, morphing into a scowl. "Oh," he says. Looks away.

Now it's Thomas' turn to force their conversation onwards. "What's ' _oh_ ', supposed to mean?  _Cockloving shithead_. What's ' _oh_ ' about it?"

"Just seems sort of... cheap. Didn't think you'd be the kind of guy who'd do that with a stranger."

What the hell—? Thomas bristles. "Mickey's not a stranger.  _Stupid dick_. And where do you get off calling me cheap? What's 'cheap' about kissing someone?"

"I thought you—" Craig starts speaking in a raised burst, before suddenly cutting himself off. "Nothing."

"What, Craig?  _Ff-fuck_. You thought you were the only person I could kiss, huh? Is that it?" Thomas pushes himself up to his feet, the tic in his arms forcing him to ball his fists up and shake them at his sides. His Tourette's has been steadily getting worse recently, moving into more pronounced muscle spasms and small, involuntary twitches, but he refuses to try any meds. This is him, this is him standing over Craig and shaking with anger. This is his head jerking to one side and stomping his left foot. "You thought I'd just—  _fuckitup—_ just sit around twiddling my thumbs while you went and, and –  _cockmaster, asslord_  – pined over Tweek?"

Now it's Craig's turn to bolt up to his feet. "That's not it! That's not—" He makes a sound like a growl. "I thought what we were doing was  _different_."

" _Piece of shit, dumb shitfucker_. How the hell did you work that out? You like Tweek;  _I_  like Tweek. Everything we did revolved around your stupid fake boyfriend and your inability to—  _fuck_ — to shut up about him."

He refuses to step back as Craig moves forwards, leaning into Thomas' space, until they're almost nose-to-nose. "I didn't hear you  _complaining_ , Tommy. In fact, you were the one always asking your dumb fucking questions. You were the one sending him love songs through me. You were the one who wanted to hear about everything he did. You were the one who—"

"Shut  _up_." The words come out in a shout. He shoves Craig, and his snarling pink face, away. Fights against the gallop of his heart in his chest. Against the thrum of blood in his veins. "Shut up, you—  _asshole licking dickhead_ — you idiot."

" _Then stop lying to yourself_." Craig bellows so loud that it drowns out the television, makes Thomas' ears pop, shocks them both into silence.

They stand, breathless, barely a foot from each other. Craig towers and Thomas tics, and the air around them feels heavy with... with  _something_. Something like the skipping beat of energy from a live wire. Like electricity. Chemistry.

After Thomas' last three months of experience with Mickey, he... recognizes the sensation. The thrill of this, it's—

 _Attraction_.

And just like that, he deflates. Because whatever this is between them, it’s not something that he wants complicated by doing... more. Craig is  _thirteen_ , for God's sake. He's barely even a teenager. They're both still just kids, and... doing anything else would be wrong. Stupid. Especially given the fact that they're both hopelessly in love with the same boy.

"Just –  _aw, shit_  – because I'm not telling you about my feelings doesn't mean I'm lying to myself.  _Suck it, fuckboy_. Just because I'm in love with Tweek and I think of you as my best friend in the whole world, that doesn't mean I'm not going to date. What we were doing when we were younger— that's over. It was—  _cock, cockmaster_ — it was just us being dumb kids."

"Tommy..." The younger boy looks lost, eyes wide and eyebrows knit together in confusion. He looks more like a child now than he ever has before. "It wasn't. Because it was  _you_..."

"That's not fair, Craig. Not to either of us.  _Goddamn it_. You've got Tweek, and I've got Mickey." Doesn't bother mentioning that he really,  _really_  doesn't have his popular boy, and that he doesn't want him, either.

"That's not real," Craig says in a small, broken voice that makes Thomas' chest ache. He doesn't know whether Craig's referring to himself and his fake boyfriend, or whatever it is Thomas has got with his schoolmate. He's not about to ask for clarification though, since either way, Craig isn't wrong.

"Neither—  _suck it up, shithead, suck it_. Neither is whatever we were doing." Takes a slow, even breath and tries to relax muscles that won't stop twitching. Tries not to choke on the words that he's about to say. "And if you can't accept that I'm gonna see other people, and that I'm gonna date, then you sh-should—  _nn-nasty, nasty fucker, nasty little shitbag_. You should go."

His ultimatum hangs heavy in the air around him, and almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth Thomas regrets them. His heart hurts, and his stomach has dropped right down into the soles of his feet. His nose tingles the exact same way it always does right before he starts to cry.

Craig looks like he's just been slapped, high points of color staining the sharp cheekbones just starting to emerge from his childhood softness.

(Thomas can already tell that he's going to grow up to be a heartbreaker. If Tweek is even a little bit inclined towards boys, he'll be lost to Craig. Hopes dearly for his friend, that  _maybe_...)

And then, his expression shutters. Everything open about his face, everything that Thomas never realized he was privy to seeing, gone.

Just a mask.

"Fine," says Craig. "I'll go get my stuff."

And just like that, he leaves.

...

Unsurprisingly, he and Mickey don't last. It's an uncomfortable mixture of the popular boy wanting too much before Thomas is ready to give it, and Thomas getting bored of lying to everyone about how he likes boys. So they call it quits just before the summer break. There's an awkward conversation with much shrugging and foot shuffling.

In the end neither of them have feelings for each other, so it's not painful. Just... cringeworthy.

And so Thomas goes on, pretending like the hole in his heart doesn't grow wider with every weekend that passes without Craig there to fill the space by his side. Even his sullen silences and long, overbearing sighs are missed.

The prospect of spending his entire summer break alone makes him feel ill, so he searches online for a Tourette's summer camp to attend – or  _any_  summer camp, really – and when he finds one that he likes the look of relatively close to home, he begs his mom to let him go.

Quickly enough she caves, and in the first few days of his summer, he's packing himself up and being shipped off to a small camp on the other side of the Rockies.

A summer of crappy workshops, bland group meals and lots of weird kids ensues, and... Thomas loves it.

For the first time since he met Craig, he makes new friends.

This camp isn't Tourette's specific, but it's jokingly referred to by the regular kids as Weird Valley. All sorts of 'troubled teens' congregate here. There are those with learning difficulties; ADD; depression; behavioural issues; OCD; Bipolar; anxiety; Asperger's; and what feels like everything else under the sun. Everything that makes the world a wonderful, vibrant place. He feels at home here.

Very quickly, Thomas and the five boys that he's set to room with over the course of his stay become good friends, getting into all sorts of trouble with the camp leaders that he normally wouldn't dare. (At least, not on purpose.)

There are the twins, Stuart and Steve, who between them don't shut up for more than thirty seconds at a time, and fly into manic fits of ear-splitting excitement over the smallest of things, driving the rest of their group halfway to insanity by the time that breakfast is over.

Then there's Jean, with his obsessive need to turn every light switch he encounters on and off twenty times in a row before he can get on with anything else. His love for deep fantasy games like  _Dungeons and Dragons_  has them all tucked away in their dorm during free time, slaving over their made up world of ‘ _Jerkov_ ’.

Next is Punyaa, who's the quiet one. He's the voice of reason in their little gang. (Which isn't actually saying much, since one of the things that he reasons they ought to do on the third night that they're there, is sneak into the staff kitchens to steal all of the cookies the camp workers hoard to themselves for their coffee breaks.)

And finally, there's  _Marty_.

Marty who, at the very first dinner, announces loudly to the entire camp atop his table, that he is a  _boy_. And if anyone has a problem with that, then he'll kick them in the fucking nuts so hard, they'll wish that  _they_  weren't.

Even as he's dragged back down off the table by a couple of members of staff, to cheering and whooping and a motley chorus of excited shouts, Thomas looks at the short, blue haired boy and thinks,  _uh-oh_.

Spends a full week after the incident blushing red and stammering so hard in Marty's presence that the bad tempered boy eventually pulls him aside.

Shoving him away from the main group as they're milling around for an outdoors lunch in the clearing by the Sports Center, Marty directs him down past the tennis court and around a corner, so that they're almost out of sight.

There's a small copse of trees and tangled bushes that Thomas is pushed towards none too gently. "Move already, fucker. Before someone spots us."

" _Aw, bastard_ ," says Thomas, barely a whimper. Stumbles and stoops to get under a low-hanging branch. Gets smacked in the face when several twigs ping back at him.

Marty follows without having to so much as duck to avoid the vicious snarls of pine needles and leathery leaves, and asks in a rather abrupt manner, "So, what the fuck's up? You got a problem with me?" Thomas struggles to take in the tanned, heart-shaped face and the fierce glare – the hands on hips and the scrapes on bare knees and elbows, without overheating. Totally unaware of the other boy's distress, and brutally blunt as always, Marty continues on, "You transphobic or something, shithead? We gonna have issues, here?"

It takes a moment of blind, heart thumping panic, before Thomas' mouth starts speaking of its own accord, " N-no, I-I—  _fuckmeup, holy shitdamn_ — I think I like you.  _Cock, c-cocksucker_." At the blank look this garners, he spits out through a burning hot face and a stammer, "I'm c-crushing on—  _fuckinghellkillmeohcocklordstrikemedown_ — you're cute. Hot. Z-zesty.  _Aw, shit._ "

Silence. A fly spirals past them, humming out a wonky tune. The leaves rustle in a light, warm breeze. Thomas glances into olive-colored eyes and then quickly away again.

In a matter of seconds, Marty's turned a sort of beetroot red, from the collar of his tee, over cheeks and nose and ears, right up to the black roots of his bubblegum blue hair.

Glowers so fiercely that Thomas half expects a punch in the stomach.

Instead the shorter boy makes a sound like he's trying not to scream, spins around in his sandals, and stomps out of the bushes, straight back off towards the main section of camp, with the air of someone who's trying to pretend  _really hard_  that they aren't running away.

" _This isn't over, dipshit_ ," Marty shouts. Continues stomping.

Thomas is left standing in the bushes having heart palpitations, and wondering if he ought to find some sort of bomb shelter to hide in before his fiery tempered crush decides he doesn't like the attention.

...

That summer is perhaps one of the best in Thomas' life.

Nothing much happens between him and Marty in the end, except for sneaking a few stolen kisses in the shrubs behind the Rec Room before getting caught by Counsellor McGallen, the exchange of cell numbers and Steam names (the latter of which, the entire group partakes in), and an endearingly violent threat that Thomas better keep in touch –  _or else_.

Even so, being around Marty and his vivacious, unpredictable nature keeps him buoyed. Keeps him  _busy_.

He still has his low moments, of course. Times when all he wants to do is collapse on himself and cry into his pillow, or call his mom just to hear the voice of  _someone familiar_. He misses his cell like he'd miss a limb, and wishes desperately to read over all his messages to Craig for the hundredth time since they fell out.

Sometimes it's all he can do not to snap at the twins, or to retreat from everyone the way that Punyaa often does.

Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and sits out on the deck of their chalet-styled dorm, and just listens to the serenading locusts. Wonders what the point is, and why he doesn't get the spins with Marty, even though he blushes bright red, and his heart trips over itself. His stomach flutters when their eyes meet across the room, and he thinks of the way he stammers whenever the other boy speaks to him in a civilized manner, but that isn't it.

Knows he isn't in love, but wishes he was anyway, because maybe that would be simpler.

When the camp closes at the tail end of August, he has the shocking revelation that he'll miss all of these people that he's only known for a handful of weeks. It gets surprisingly close to teary. Marty's gone beetroot again, eyes shining, and for once the twins are subdued. (Stuart sniffles. Steve whimpers.) Thomas subtly rubs his sleeve over his face.

Punyaa cracks a smile, and then opens his arms in the universal gesture for, ' _Come on, then, I'm the designated shoulder to cry on. Get on with it_.'

They all hug it out in a mess of gangly, bony limbs and awkward back patting.

(Well. Apart from Jean, who says he'd rather, "Shoot myself in the dick than touch all of you, my dudes.")

Promising to keep in contact, they go their separate ways one by one, as each of their parents arrive to take them home.

Even though Thomas would like to think he'll come back again next summer, and that it'll be the same as this time around, with a group of people he adores and misses before he's even loaded his trunk into the boot of his mom's car, he knows already that this was a one off.

This isn't who Thomas is. He signed up to camp in order to run from his problems, and that's wrong, but if it weren't for his crippling loneliness in the face of losing Craig's attention and companionship, then he wouldn't have ever come here.

Would have been at home all summer, walking through the city; eating popsicles in his garden; going hiking; watching Craig smash his high scores on all his games; forcing his best friend to relive the latest season of  _Rick and Morty_  for the seventh time over; debating the merits of coffee over a basket of fries at their favorite dive diner; trading innocent kisses under the covers; staring up at his ceiling and listening to a thousand stories about the boy he loves at three in the morning.

(But then he remembers how different things were between him and his closest friend after Craig's confession about loving Tweek, and Thomas' eventual admittance to sharing those feelings too. The summer he's been dreaming of and missing out on wouldn't have been his reality, either way.)

So he takes a final look around at the camp. At Marty slapping one of the twins upside the head on the far end of the parking lot, at the staff rushing around to speak to all of the parents and guardians, at Punyaa leaning into his dad's arms three cars over, like he hasn't see the man for years.

Thinks, this is a good way to say goodbye. It's cheerful. No hurt feelings. Everything ties together so nicely.

He smiles a small, heart aching smile, and climbs into the passenger seat.

...

Thomas gets home, and rushes right up to his room so fast he leaves his trunk at the bottom of the stairs - has to flail madly for the bannister railing just so his feet don't slip on the steps.

Scrambles for his cell and his charger the second he's through his bedroom door.

Sits on the edge of his bed with his phone clasped in his trembling hands and swears so loud his throat hurts by the time that the home screen flashes to life.

Feels his racing heart slow, beat by beat, as he looks down at his empty screen.

At his lack of messages.

He's been gone for a month – a whole month – and nothing. Not a single text from anyone.

(Not a single text from the only person that matters.)

Sets his iPhone down on his nightstand very gently. Draws his covers back and slips into his freshly made bed, fully dressed.

Presses his face into his pillow, and swears. Keeps swearing until his throat closes up.

(But not because of his Tourette's.)

...

23:44  
_for you:_  
_[watch?v=edlC4-yx8Yg](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=edlC4-yx8Yg)  
i hope you had a good summer. good luck in 8th grade. youll kick butt. x_

...

High school is... it's awful.

So Thomas makes it that much worse for himself.

He comes out as gay on the very first day of classes, and suddenly he's a freak for more than one thing.

But it's not all bad, because even if a huge portion of the student body are douchebags about it, suddenly there are other kids too, other kids  _like him_ , smiling at him in the corridors, sitting next to him during classes, standing up for him in front of the bullies... calling him over to sit with them in lunch.

Between his summer camp gang and the new faces appearing around him every day, Thomas isn't isn't quite so alone anymore.

A whole new community opens up to him.

...

08:06  
_[watch?v=08takkHGMSE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=08takkHGMSE)_  
_i miss you. i think about you a lot._  
_for whatever its worth. i'm sorry._  
_i dont expect you to talk to me and this doesnt mean i dont stand by what i said about dating. but youre my best friend even if im not yours. and the thought i might have hurt you hurts me._  
_i hope first semesters going well._  
_and craig._  
_happy 14th birthday. x_

...

"I like you," says Gabriel, rubbing the back of his head.

Thomas stares at the older boy over his battered copy of  _The Hobbit_. Gabriel is a reserve Quarterback on the football team, and a whole two grades above him. He's tall, dark and handsome. Strong featured and well muscled. Sort of intimidating at first - right up until you hear his goofy, booming laugh, or see him struggle over the simplest of algebra equations.

(It helps that the first time they met, Gabriel punched some guy for calling Thomas a faggot.)

" _Aw, shit_. You're dating Darren," says Thomas, in a great impression of Craig's flat drawl. Doesn't bother looking around the little nook of the library he's tucked himself away in, since he's sat in the Physics section, and nobody in their right minds wants to be down here unless they're forced to for an assignment. (It's ingenius of him, he likes to think.)

Gabriel looks like he's trying to grin, only it comes out as more of a grimace. "No man.  _Technically_  Darren's with Scarlet."

Err...

"What." There's no inflection to that one word. After a moment, he decides to expand on that grand reaction. "Look, I'm not –  _fucking asshat_  – I'm not getting involved in your drama, Gabe.  _Goddamn bastard_. Most people 'round here hate me enough without any extra incentive."

"It's not like that." Without any invitation, Gabriel pulls one of the free chairs back and sinks down onto the seat. Thomas pulls his feet back under his chair, and sets his book face down so he doesn't lose his page. "We're... we're open about messing around. At least, we are with our friends. Scarlet's cool with it." A real grin this time. "In fact, I think she's kinda  _into_  it, if you know what I'm saying."

Oh, gross. That really isn't an image he needs in his head. Scarlet's like everyone's older sister. She's sweet and sassy, and always knows how to make you feel like you're being inappropriate or stupid. Thinking of her  _getting her kicks_  out of Gabriel and Darren messing around is— no. Just, no. "Okay –  _fuck it up_  – stop, please. Or I'll throw up."

Snorting out a laugh, Gabriel flashes a bright white smile at him. "It's just sex."

" _Holy shitballs_. Not when you're talking about Scarlet."

"Or just girls in general, huh, since y’know… I guess you're not a fan of anyone with a 'cat', are you?"

Looking away, Thomas shrugs. Feels his face heat up. His left leg bounces of it's own accord, and his head tics into a nod. "It's not the... physical that puts me off.  _Damn shitstorm, cockmaster_. I just... don't like the way girls think. I don't find them attractive." Shrugs again. "They're too –  _fuck_  – complicated."

The older boy squints at him. "So you're like... pan, then? Or... what?"

He blinks. Thinks of Craig, and Tweek, and Mickey, and Marty. "I like guys." It's just... it's as simple as that. And until he crushes on someone that identifies as a girl, then he's sticking to it.

"Huh." Gabriel leans back in his chair, until the front two legs rise off of the floor, and squints at Thomas like he's a particularly tricky puzzle.

Quiet falls around them, and Thomas ignores the way that the older boy is studying him, in favor of picking up his book again. Figures that the conversation is over.

"So... what d'you think? Interested?"

Bites the inside of his cheek. He's... got no interest in Gabriel that way. They've got nothing in common, and besides, he's still sort of 'seeing' Marty long distance. (Pauses at the fact that Gabriel seeing other people doesn't factor into his decision, even in the slightest.) " _Aw, shit_. I'm sorry, Gabe. I don't—  _fuckwithme_ — I don't think I like you that way."

Wide shoulders slump a little, but Gabriel just offers him another bright smile. "That's cool, man. You do you."

Mouth quirking up in reply to his friend, Thomas glances out over the long, pale stretches of shelving filled with color coded, shiny-covered books, and the scuffed linoleum floors. Breathes in dust and old paper. Thinks back to every time he'd dragged Craig through his favorite book store – the long hours spent in there, browsing the countless titles and feeling warm. Comfortable.

Thinks of Craig, somewhere a few hours drive from here, sat down with his arm around Tweek. The warm ache in his chest intensifies.

Something small niggles at the back of his brain when he thinks of Craig and Tweek together, and the question travels down to his mouth before he has the good sense to stop it. "Just out of curiosity," he says, the words leaving him in a rush. "Don't you get –  _motherfucker, goddamn_  – jealous? Seeing Darren and Scarlet together?" Feels the blood rush to his cheeks at his own rudeness.

Thankfully, Gabriel doesn't seem to take the question badly - just leans further back in his tilting chair and hums. After a moment, he says, "I don't get jealous, but I guess I sometimes feel a little... insecure."

Thomas leans forwards. "Insecure?"

"Yeah, man. I start questioning what Darren could like about me, and whether or not he's actually bi - like, what if he's curious and I'm just a phase, y'know? Or what if Scarlet decides she's not okay with it anymore?" The older boy makes a noise like he's trying to hold back his goofy, whooping laugh. (Which makes no sense to Thomas, since he doesn't think this discussion is even the least bit funny.) "And then I have to tell myself it doesn't matter, because  _they_  obviously see something alright in me, and as long as they're into it too, then so am I. That's just something that comes with being poly, man. Openness. Honesty."

'Poly.'

Thomas rolls the word off of his tongue, silent. Tastes it.

Somehow, it sticks.

...

02:31  
_this boy said something interesting today at school._  
_it made me think and research a lot of stuff. but i'm still confused._  
_do you ever get confused about stuff like feelings. or do you just always know the answer right from the start._  
_i bet you do. youre smarter than i am about that stuff. x_

...

Whenever he's home alone, he stares at his phone until his eyes ache. He wanders the house like a ghost, going from room to room and feeling like his stomach has been scooped out.

Messaging Marty and the other boys from camp takes his mind off of it for a while, but mostly he's still stuck here, waiting. Waiting for Craig.

As unlikely as it seems, he misses the weirdo that walked up to him out of no where, and asked to do his laundry. He misses the kid who got flustered over a peck on the cheek. He misses their whispered video calls at four in the morning, and even feeling ill the next day because he got no sleep.

Thomas just desperately wants his friend back, even though the longer they're apart, the more resentment he feels towards the younger boy for avoiding him.

It's not even about Tweek – it's about what Craig had come to mean to him, without Thomas even realizing it.

"So don't give the douchebag a chance to keep messing with you, Tom-Tom," Marty says, mouth too close to his mic.

Wincing and turning his volume down, Thomas sighs. "B-but—  _fuck, fuckingshit, goddamn sucks_ — but I don't know what to do. I've sent him texts. Voicemails.  _Aw, shit_. Songs. Videos. Pictures. Our chat might as well be my d-diary at this point."

"See, that right there's your problem, you dipshit." The huff of Marty's breath right into his ear makes him shiver, even from half a state away. (His insults sound like endearments, these days.) "You're too soft. You're giving the asshole all the leverage and—"

" _Holyshit, fuck me up, cockmaster_ —"

"Okay, I will, but lemme finish talking first. And don't use my nickname when we're talking about your  _other_  boyfriend. It's weird."

" _Marty_ , oh my God." Thomas chokes. His face goes so red, he suspects he's glowing. "He's n-nnn—  _nasty shit—_ not my  _boyfriend_."

A pause follows. His crush coughs awkwardly into his mic, and the sound reverberates through the headset.

"... Right. Well. We're gonna talk about the fact you didn't deny  _I'm_  your boyfriend at some point when I'm less confused."

The sound of about twelve tics fighting of dominance in his mouth comes out in a long, garbled string. Thomas buries his face in his hands.

As soon as it's over (Marty huffs impatiently at least twice, but otherwise manages to stay quiet throughout), the other boy gets back to speaking. "What was I saying...? Oh. Yeah." Sucks in a deep breath that has Thomas bracing for a tirade. "You're a fucking idiot. You're making it easy for him – practically begging for any little scrap of attention you can get. He's not gonna do anything for you when you're already bending over backwards. I mean, talk about feeding his ego. You really are a dumbass if you think that waxing poetry about how much you  _want_  him and you  _miss_  him is gonna make a normal kid our age suddenly stop and go, ' _oh yeah, shit, I'm a cunt. Better sort myself out_.' Tom-Tom, it doesn't work that way."

Face still buried against his palms, he says in a muffled voice, "Then what'm I s'posed to do?"

"Take a leaf outta my book. Give him an ultimatum. Tell him that if he doesn't pull his fucking head outta his ass and grow up, you're gonna drop him. Give him the chance, and then if he doesn't take it, that's  _his_  loss."

Thomas straightens just enough to stare at the screen of his laptop, where his half finished History essay is waiting for his attention. " _Aw, asslord— ass_. He won't. Take it, I mean.  _Fuck_."

"Then he's not worth your time."

He fights the instinctive urge to say,  _no, you're wrong. Craig's worth all of it_.

Marty wouldn't understand – they'd just trail off into another uncomfortable disagreement. So instead, he changes directions. Diverts attention to something else.

(Goes, impossibly, redder.)

" _Aw, fuck_. M-Marty? I— I miss you."

As predicted, his crush gets very loud and very, very full of bluster.

For a little while, at least, Thomas smiles.

...

16:09  
_i tried writing you a song like tweek does. but all i could think was that im no good at it._  
_theres another poem i found that i liked though. just a short one._  
_its by this lady called shilow._  
**_'The silence of night_**  
**_Is when I feel my heart the loudest_**  
**_It's like a goddamn train_**  
_**And there is no stopping it'**_  
_i think it reminds me of us lying awake that night when the ac was broken. and it was too hot. and there was a storm rolling in._  
_even though you were sad and it uncomfortable i still love that memory. x_

...

When, by Christmas, he still hasn't heard from Craig, he follows Marty's advice and takes drastic measures.

He asks his mom to let him go to South Park on the coach.

Naturally, she fusses. And flaps. And obsesses repeatedly over every little thing that could go wrong. (Thomas doesn't dare point out that Craig's been making the same trip alone since he was eight.)

Eventually though, when he explains that he'll be staying the night with Craig's family, she caves. Apparently just the thought of Thomas getting back into contact with Craig – his only long-term friend – after going so long not talking, is too big of a temptation.

So while his mom calls Craig's parents and figures out a date, Thomas books his ticket, and sends one last text to his friend.

11:16  
_this is stupid. youre being stupid._  
_so im coming to stay with you tuesday night. your parents know._  
_either youre gonna grow up and be there._  
_or you can go away to tweeks for the night. and ill be gone by 10am wednesday._  
_but don't decide to leave just to hurt me craig._  
_this is the last time i try._  
_youre my best friend but that only goes so far._

Stares at his phone until his tics get so bad he bites his tongue, and has to set it down. He lays on his back on the bed, and stares up at the ceiling until his eyes force themselves shut. Does his best to breathe through the muscle spasms and the stiffness in his knuckles from repetitively clenching and unclenching his fists. It's not that awful. His physical tics are so commonplace these days that he's used to it already. To the strain.

At some point his mom comes upstairs, sits beside him and strokes his bangs back from his face, even though it's a futile attempt when his head is jerking back and forth.

(Can't hear the cell buzz over his own shrieking and swearing, and by the time his tics do ease off enough to pick up his phone, he's exhausted.)

It isn't until a good few hours later that he wakes from an impromptu post tic-attack nap, and finds the reply. He looks down at the screen with heavy, itchy eyes, and doesn't know whether to feel relieved or worried.

13:43  
_fine_

...

It's cold in South Park in a way that Thomas doesn't think it is anywhere else in the states, south of the North Pole.

There's snow on the rooftops, and the yards, and the cars. There's snow burying evergreens and gathering up against the walls in four foot deep banks. There's snow piling up on every available surface. And then there's still more snow falling in a thick, flurried cloud that turns everything beyond it white.

Even the snowdrifts have snowdrifts.

He's been right up to his thighs in damn stuff, and that's with sticking to the sidewalks as much as humanly possible.

(This weather makes no logical sense.)

But no matter how he's half frozen, all he can do is stand on the doorstep and shiver.

Stares at the peeling, grey-green paint and the plaque off to the left declaring it number ' _1010_ ', and wonders if it would be too late to turn around and go home. Swears so loudly that even the snow can't swallow up his words.

Fumbles with stiff, sore fingers for his cell, which is tucked down in the front pocket of his jacket, to maybe call his mom, or Marty, or  _anyone—_

He gets halfway through his passcode, when the door is yanked open. Hot air and bright light billows out into the ugly, dead whiteness.

Thomas stops. Looks up from his phone at the tall, skinny looking boy in front of him. Sharp, pale blue eyes and a head of usually neat black hair that's standing up on end. Pronounced freckles beneath his eyes, and dark bruises smudging the corners. He's wearing pajama pants even though it's mid-afternoon (they barely reach his ankles), a plain black shirt, and fuzzy blue slippers. His face is thin, and he looks... different. Grown up – or at least, as grown up as any fourteen-year-old boy can look.

They stare at each other for a long, painful beat of silence.

And then—

And then Craig is stepping out of his doorway into the blizzard, and warm, bony arms are pulling him in so tight, Thomas feels all of the air leave him. The hug smells of coffee and lemon candy.

He doesn't try to fight the tears – just hugs his best friend right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you believe it's snowing over here again? half a foot and counting, in less than a day. what the heck? :O
> 
> (also, just in case any of you were wondering, ilu guys. you're the best.)


	5. that awkward moment when

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this story is a painful reminder of how much being a teenager sucked sometimes. :|

They barely make it up into Craig's bedroom, Thomas setting his rucksack on the floor, before the younger boy's arms are around him again, crushing him into another hug. The tears, which stopped just long enough for Thomas to greet Craig's parents and little sister, start up the second that they're inside of his friend's room.

"You jerk," he says through throat aching sobs. "You stupid, stupid jerk." Hugs back with all his might.

Craig says nothing, but he doesn't have to. The dampness where he bends to press his face to Thomas' shoulder and the way his whole body shakes is enough to tell Thomas that there's a lot more going on for the usually stoic boy than first meets the eye.

After a few more minutes of self-indulgent crying, Thomas swallows down the lump in his throat and pulls away. Sniffles loudly and wipes the back of his cold, wet sleeve over his tear stained cheeks. Holds Craig at arms length and really, truly looks.

Thin. He's frightfully thin. The bags under his eyes are dark, standing out bold against his pale cheeks. There's a certain dullness to his swollen eyes that can't be explained away by tiredness. It's a look that Thomas sees reflected back at him in the mirror, on his worst days.

His heart sinks down to the very bottom of his stomach, and he crushes his burning curiosity, his hurt and his anger – even his relief at being here, beside Craig again – in order to deal with this.

Slipping his sore, cold hands down to Craig's forearms, he grips the other boy's wrists and leads him back towards the bed. Taking the hint, Craig follows, slow steps and a downturned face.

They sink down onto the edge of the mattress, and Thomas, face damp and eyes still stinging, lets go of one of Craig's wrists in order to wipe away some of the tears rolling down his friend's pale cheeks.

"Tell me," he whispers.

Finally, for the first time since the front door first opened, Craig meets his gaze. The way that his expression slackens speaks of relief. He reaches up and takes Thomas' raised hand in his; the blonde's heart skips, and his breathing quickens as Craig presses his cold palm against a warm, wet cheek. His fingers twitch of their own accord, heat rushing up into his face at the way that Craig's long, dark eyelashes flutter against his cheeks.

Sighing like he's breathing out all of his tension, Craig deflates. Starts speaking in a low, hoarse voice. "It's... it's Tweek. He's sick. He never slept much before but now it's... worse. And he doesn't eat. It's like he forgets to even do the easiest things. Like he just... stops. Stops caring."

Thomas feels his stomach grow heavy. Knows, without having to be told— "This has been going on for a long time, hasn't it? Since before we fell out."

The slightest inclination of his head against Thomas' fingers. Craig's hand remains against his, holding him still like otherwise he might try to pull away. (That's the very last thing that Thomas would want to do, but he won't admit to that, because this way he can keep on touching, without it being weird.)

"It started over a year ago. He went off his food first, and then I'd get texts through at odd hours – these, these long senseless messages, like he was trying to get something out of his head. So I messaged back. Then he started shying away from everyone. He's never liked physical contact much, but... he hates it now. He flinches if you touch him at all. And he's quiet. He does all these repetitive things he never did before, like chewing his nails and... scratching." Craig shudders, and bends further over, clutching at Thomas' fingers until they ache. "Always scratching."

The weight in his chest redoubles, and the lump he'd swallowed down resurfaces. So Tweek's not well, and Craig... he's been looking after him, sticking by him, unnoticed and unappreciated. He barely keeps his face from collapsing in around the sadness. "And what about you?"

Craig shakes his head, movement jerky. "I try, dude. I won't eat if he doesn't, and every time I catch him scratching I stop him, but—"

His fingers spasm, and his head tics, hard, to one side. "No. No, I meant how're you?  _Fucking dumb bastard_. I'm asking if you're –  _goddamn idiot_  – okay." He scoots forward on the bed, until their knees knock and their faces are closer together. " _You're_  the one I'm asking about."

Blue eyes meet brown, and Craig looks lost, face blank like he never even stopped to think about how he was, in all of this. His brow slowly creases, and another bout of tears spill over his eyelids. "Scared. I'm scared. I don't— what am I s'posed to do, if he doesn't get better? What if s-something happens to him and I can't—"

It's stupid, he knows it is. It's selfish and won't help anything.

(Does it anyway, because in that moment, he thinks his heart is breaking for this boy.)

He surges forwards, and covers Craig's mouth with his – a hard, warm pressure that has his friend jolting back in surprise. It lasts barely a second, but Thomas just chases after that first peck with another, this one slow and firm, thought out where the other was impulsive. It doesn't go further than that, but that's fine, because he doesn't want it to.

Craig's eyes slip shut under the fresh torrent of tears, and he audibly sobs.

Suddenly, they're out on the park bench again, thick clouds overhead and Craig unravelling in Thomas' arms.

And he does. Collapses onto Thomas' shoulder, arms thrown around Thomas' back and his whole upper body weight on the shorter boy's chest.

Good.  _Good_.

This is going to be okay. They're together again, and neither of them have to be alone.

(He doesn't need to be told that Craig needs him the same way he does, because he can feel it in the desperate clutching of his fingers, in the sharp lines of his bones, can hear it in the wails of a desperately sad boy that hasn't been allowed to cry for far too long - hasn't had anyone to go to for comfort.)

Eventually, they collapse back onto the bed together, still tangled together and faces pushed into warm necks. Craig's sobs stop and his body goes lax, a heavy weight against Thomas' front, and all that Thomas does is lie there, rubbing circles into his friend's back like his mom does when he's sad – like he showed Craig years ago – and tic.

Some time later, after the sun has sunk down below the houses and the room has been plunged into darkness, Craig stirs against his neck, nose brushing his skin in a way that makes him shiver. A warm breath washes over his throat, steady and slow.

"I missed you, Tommy. I missed you so much."

Closing his eyes, he lifts his hand and runs his fingers through the short, spiky hair at the base of Craig's neck. Basks in the warmth of Craig's body and the comforting ache in his heart. "Me too. Fuck, fucking— suck it. I wish you'd have called."

The younger boy's voice is a hum against his ear. "I wanted to. Some days all that made me smile were getting your texts. It's just... the longer I went, the harder it was. I thought you'd be angry, man."

I am, he thinks. Or, I  _was_. He doesn't say that out loud, because he's not a cruel person, and the idea of inflicting more unnecessary pain on his friend does nothing but hurt him, too.

Instead, he says, "You sound l-like him, when you speak." A pause. "It's weird."

Craig tilts his head, and dry lips brush against Thomas' throat as he talks, making Thomas squirm. "I do?"

"You-  _fucking cocklord, fuck_. You never used to say 'man', before. And you're mm-more –  _goddamnit, shitbrains_  – expressive. More emotional."

"Oh," says Craig. Makes a sad sort of hiccuping laugh. "I guess that's one of the silver linings of all this, then."

There's a world of hurt there in his voice still, and a whole book full of things that they're gonna have to talk about, to clear the air. But that's okay.

 _They're_  okay.

...

17:44  
_can i come see u this weekend?_

17:45  
_of course. please. come here whenever you want. x_

17:46  
_ok :) x_

...

They get through January and February together, constantly calling or texting, double the amount of visits, talking about everything under the sun. They are one another's confidants.

It's not all just about Tweek Tweak anymore. It's finally about  _them_ , too. About them being healthier and happier. Thomas  _likes_  being there for Craig, when no one else is apparently stepping up – and he likes knowing that Craig is there for him.

Hours of the day are lost to their conversations. Thomas messages Craig first thing in the morning, under the desks at school, during club activities, when he's meeting up with his friends, as he's falling asleep at night. He leaves voice messages while he's on the bus, while he's walking through the city, while he's eating his takeouts and microwave meals by himself in an empty house that doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.

They do talk about Tweek still, of course, but now it's in a more open tone. They share their affection and their frustrations over the other boy. They dissect every one of his actions, they worry over his moods.

On the good days, Craig's texts are full of emoji faces, silly anecdotes, quotes from movies they're watching. They laugh and whisper to each other over the phone late at night, talking about what might happen in some fantasy world, where Tweek wakes up one day and realizes he'd desperately in love with Craig, too. 

On the bad days, he sends Craig songs, and gaming theories, short animated movies and quotes from the books he's reading. He shares his favourite poetry, writes his text diaries. Sometimes Craig will write back long, venting messages, sometimes he'll sending nothing back at all. Mostly, he just wants to be on mic, just wants Thomas to read to him, or talk to him about his day at school, his classes and his dinner.

Being surrounded by Thomas' normalcy seems to act like a balm for Craig's nerves, the same way that Craig's sarcasm and endless patience warms Thomas' heart.

In this way, they balance one another out. They fill in some of the gaps that they're missing as individuals.

They're inseparable, and the rest of the world stops mattering at all.

He spends so much time on his phone, in fact, that his mom has to threaten to take it off of him when they're having their rare family meals.

It's awful and he knows it is, but he speaks to his camping friends less, and feels less pressure to go out and socialise with the kids from school. Even though he cares for Marty still – has a crush on the other boy that makes him awkward and embarrassed – Craig's his childhood friend. Craig has been beside him for years. Having him back is... life changing.

Scary.

Because he hadn't realized just how much he'd come to rely on Craig's companionship. He supposes that's what happens, when you get a best friend.

But that doesn't mean that all their problems magically go away.

...

19:03  
_i thought of us today. when i was reading._  
_" **They know that tragedy is not glamorous. They know it doesn't play out in life as it does on a stage or between the pages of a book. It is neither a punishment meted out nor a lesson conferred. Its horrors are not attributable to one single person. Tragedy is ugly and tangled, stupid and confusing.** "  
__i think that sums up everything pretty well._

19:38  
_i wish i could believe that Tommy_  
but sometimes it all feels like this is my fault  
i hate myself

19:41  
_"_ ** _Be sad, be sorry-but don't shoulder it._** _"_  
this book has a lot of lessons i think are good.  
you should read it.

19:42 _  
_ _u know i dont read man_

19:42 _  
then let me read it to you._

19:58 _  
tonight?_

20:00 _  
tonight. xx_

...

April.

It's been a particularly long and arduous winter, and only now is the last of the snow melting away from the countryside. Their plans to go out on a hike are cancelled last minute due to an emergency at the hospital that required his mom's attention, and so the boys are left to their own devices.

This outcome is, Tomas reflects as he looks at his friend, probably for the best. It's one of Craig's worse days, today.

Sickly pale and curled down into himself, the other boy's barely spoken a word since he got here. And with Thomas' mom giving them the side-eye like she's suspicious about there being something romantic going on between them whenever she's around, it's been hard to comfort Craig, the way he wants to. The way that works best.

(She may not be right in her assumptions, but she certainly isn't _wrong_.)

His mom leaves the house with one last, meaningful stare and a steady, "You boys, do try to behave now, won't you?"

And just like that, they're left to their own dubious devices.

(Of  _course_  they won't behave – they're teenagers, after all.)

Taking Craig's arm, he pulls the boy up from his slump at the dining room table and through to the living room, where cold, fresh air rushes through the open window and brings in pretty little warbles of birdsong. The dull white sky sets a grey cast over the room, but the scent of dirt and cut grass pervades the staleness of dust and winter.

Trailing along behind him, a lifeless puppet with cut strings, Craig sinks down into the couch cushions with only the slightest nudge. Thomas follows more carefully, folding himself down against his friend's side, legs tucked up against his chest.

"D'you –  _asshat, ass_  – wanna talk about it?"

A slow, dead-eyed shake of his head.

"I could put on a—  _damn cocksucker_ — a movie? Or some music...?"

Silence.

Then, the quietest whisper: "I can't get outta my own head."

With the weight of the world on Craig's shoulders, Thomas knows that no amount of talking will help, sometimes. Sometimes, the best thing to do is... "Should I distract you, then?"

Craig's eyes flicker to his, hollow and dull, but there's no objection.

So Thomas pushes up onto his knees and swings one leg over Craig's lap. Sinks all of his weight down against his friend's thighs. Grabs hold of his face in both hands, and kisses him.

Properly.

It's... awkward as heck. Slow and clumsy. Craig is clearly inexperienced, despite all their pecking over the years, and he seems to be in such a shock about the whole situation that he spends the first minute or so stuck stiff.

Only once Thomas pulls back, flushed and breathless, mouth wet and head ticking to one side in embarrassment, does Craig seem to wake up.

Their next kiss is still clunky, still stilted, but... Thomas doesn't mind. Especially not since it seems to do the trick.

By slow increments, Craig comes back to himself, unsure and pale at first, but slowly growing bolder, more confident, pink cheeked and  _alive_.

They kiss until that electric energy is all around them, sparking off of furniture and leaving every hair standing on end.

And sure, kissing doesn't fix anything, but...

It sure does make things easier to deal with.

(Even if having to retreat to the bathroom afterwards  _is_  cripplingly embarrassing. It's fine, though, since Craig seems to be in the same boat.)

...

07:45  
_i had a dream that was_  
_rly rly embarassing dude_  
_and tweek is staying over_  
_and he cought me_  
_THIS IS ALL UR FALT_

07:49  
_oh. my god._  
_i shouldnt laugh but._  
_Craig._  
_im laughing._

07:51  
_WHAT??_  
_what kind of a freind ARE u???_  
_ever since that time u.. u know_

07:52  
_that time i made out with you._

07:53  
_ugh_  
_yh whatever anyway ever since then i keep_  
_i keep thinking about it whenever Tweek hugs me or something_  
_and then i_  
.....  
ugh

07:55  
_hahahahaha._  
_that is hilarious._  
_and kinda hot._

07:59  
_DUDE._  
_WHY R U SO WIERD??_

08:03  
_sorry not sorry._  
_might be awkward for you but._  
_not for me._

08:04  
_ur a monster... what happened to sweet cute Tommy man :(_

08:05  
_he was a figment of your imagination. clearly. ;)_  
_so anyway. what did he say._  
_when he caught you._

08:07  
_he didnt_  
_he just screeched and ran out the room_  
_im so humiliated man_  
_what if he doesnt talk 2 me again or he doesnt wanna sit by me bc he thinks i'm a pervert?_  
_what if i said something in my sleep?_

08:08  
_well look at it this way._  
_worst case scenario is you said his name._  
_right?_

08:09  
_..._  
fuck  
_right_

08:11  
_well at least this way he might actually catch on about you liking him._  
_finally._  
_after 4 damn years._  
...  
come on. it wouldnt be so bad.  
_at least that way itd open up the conversation._  
_craig._  
_you there?_  
...  
_you better tell me whats going on later._

09:32  
_fml_  
_seriously some1 any1 kill me_  
_strike me down_  
_end my suffering_

09:34  
_???_

09:35  
_dude he came running back in with a coffee_  
_said it sounded like i had a rlly bad nightmare_

09:35  
_oh my god._

09:36  
_i was literally rolling round moaning in my sleep and probly like saying things out loud and...?_  
_he came 2 the conclusion i was having a night mare??_  
_i s2g i am losing the will 2 live_

09:38  
_this is both really lame and also really funny._  
_i feel like saying. 'Tweek. sweet stupid boy. get a clue.'_  
_'Craigs got a boner for you.'_  
_(oh look now im rhyming.)_  
_honestly listening to all your failures. is like watching a really crappy sitcom._  
_i laugh but then i feel guilty for it. and then i just sit and sigh._  
_i love that boy as much as you do. but hes a total idiot._

09:43  
_Tommy?_

09:44  
_yeah._

09:45  
_i hate how right u r_  
_fuck off so i can mope._

09:47  
_hahaha. love you too. x_

09:48  
_yhyh whatever x_

...

"Have you ever wondered if  _we_  would've ended up together, if I hadn't gotten shoved into this with Tweek?" Craig asks through the mic, voice so soft that Thomas (who's default settings are always low, thanks to Marty's proclivity for screeching into his headset), has to turn the volume up double, just to hear what his friend is saying.

He makes a thoughtful sound, looking up from the book he's reading in order to watch the video image of the younger boy's face. It's June, about seven in the evening, and they've been on Discord for about four hours already. Thomas is meant to chat with Marty later, but that isn't until nine - so he's been over here listening to Craig gaming as he gets lost in his story.

What hints to him that this is a serious question, is the way that Craig's paused his game (some kind of first person shooter set in space that doesn't interest Thomas in the slightest), and is leaning back in his chair to stare at the monitor.

"Me and—  _asslord, cockmaster_ — me and you?" he asks, mind temporarily flat lining.

"I like you. I think you're hot. You're interesting and smart. I sometimes wonder why it wasn't  _you_  I fell for."

Blinking, Thomas shrugs one shoulder. " _Fuck me up_. I think it's just one of those things. We—  _goddamn shitface_. Ugh. We would probably never work that way, Craig. I told you I'm poly, so -  _shit it, dickhead_  - I like more than one person. I don't do things the normal way. It's probably better that it happened like this."

A stubborn jut of Craig's jaw says that that maybe wasn't the right thing to say. "What, so you think I wouldn't be able to deal with that? Like, I couldn't share you, if that was what you wanted? Is that was you mean?"

With a roll of his eyes and a loud sigh, Thomas ignores the warmth blooming like a flower in his chest at Craig's indignant attitude. "That's part of it, Craig. Being in an open poly relationship is totally different than being with a normal person. It takes more communication and it's a lot harder to balance."

"You don't know that," Craig says, more grumble than anything else. "Since you've never actually tried it before."

Thomas looks back down at his book and considers just dropping the subject before it gets too out of hand. He doesn't want to fall out with Craig again, but... something stops him. Has him speaking in a slow, measure tone despite the hopeless stupidity of the conversation that they're having. "I'm not in love with you the way I am with Tweek, and I'm not –  _fuck it, suck it up_  – crushing on you the way I am with Marty.  _Holy shitballs_. But I wouldn't kiss you an— aw, shit— and mess around like that if I didn't like you  _some_  way." He peers down at the cover of his book, running his fingertip over the bumps and the creases along the spine. "So who knows? Mm- _mother fucker, asswipe_ — maybe we could've been happy together. I-in love. Or something."

His face heats up, but he ignores it. Ignores the skipping of his heart. Ignores the swell of dizziness he gets when he glances up at Craig and sees that same soft, dimpled smile that's rarer nowadays than ever before.

(Gold dust.)

"I think I  _would've_  been happier that way," says the younger boy. "And even if it isn't romantically, I already love you, Tommy. I don't think I could live without you, dude."

And really, Thomas thinks with that same warm ache in his heart, that's enough.

...

(But in reality, it isn't. Not by a long shot. Because love never is easy.)

...

03:12  
_i love him_  
_i told him again today_  
_i hugged him for almost an hour straight when he was having a breakdown_  
_and i kept saying i love u, i love u, im here, ur all right_  
_but its like he totally switches off. theres nothing there..._  
_fuck, Tommy. idk how to fix this_  
_it hurts_  
_i hate this_  
_why cant it just stop..._

03:27  
_im here Craig._  
_im here if you want to chat._  
_youre not alone. okay?_  
_neither of you are._  
_im always here. x_

...

During the summer break, Tweek has a bad turn. Craig is a wreck over the phone, telling him all about how the boy's gone off his food altogether and spends great spells of time locked in his room.

Half of the time that Craig calls or texts or goes around to visit his fake boyfriend, he's turned away.

By mid August, he's a mess, and seeing Craig pushing himself down into a deeper and deeper hole to try and drag Tweek out again is... it scares Thomas. Terrifies him.

There's only so much help he can give, though. Only so much advice, only so often he can try to persuade Craig to get an adult involved, for both him  _and_ for Tweek.

(Thomas strongly suspects that Craig ha _s_  actually gone to their parents at the very least, but for whatever reason, he's turned away. They don't listen.)

And Craig is left scrambling at a slippery, muddy slope with nothing to hold onto. No footholds, nothing to grapple with.

Thomas knows it's going to end badly, so he does something desperate.

He ignores the problems in his own life - the worsening tic attacks, the heightened anxiety, and his worry over a recent fallout with Marty (for refusing to attend camp again this year, and thus ruining the one chance they'd had to meet up all year) – and he invites Craig to stay, for the entire final week of summer.

(Is almost surprised when Craig actually agrees to come.)

But he knows the second that the other boy steps off of the train, things are going to be different this time.

There's something in the tight lines of his shoulders – something in the jolty way he's moving that speaks of pent up frustration and energy, a tension that has him striding across the platform, straight into Thomas' arms.

It's in the way his long fingered hands grasp at Thomas' face, right there in front of the entirety of the station, and he clashes their mouths together in a hard, bruising kiss.

(It's in the way that the electricity between them  _spikes_ , clings to them like a blanket and hardwires Thomas' brain into  _he's so warm, god, this is all i want, just this, forget the rest of the damn world_.)

It's in the way that Thomas kisses back.

And yeah, maybe there  _is_  none of that traditional romantic love between them, but this— this  _attraction_ — it can't be wrong, can it?

Certainly doesn't  _feel_  wrong, even when an older couple going by make disgusted sounds, and when one of the station wardens comes over to angrily shoo them off of the platform.

All that happens is they pull each other into an alleyway just shy of LoDo, and make out until they're breathless and worn down around the edges, clasping one another's shoulders and gasping at the thick, oily summer air.

"M—  _aw, shit_. Missed you, too," Thomas gasps against Craig's cheek, hot damp breath against sticky skin.

Craig just shudders against his shoulder, and pulls him into a tighter hug.

That just about sets the president for the rest of the trip.

...

He's woken up by long, slow kisses and a hand against his jaw.

Distracted from the TV by Craig flopping down, face flushed and damp from the shower.

Caught staring as Craig changes for bed.

Buzzing as they fall asleep side-by-side, heart jumping and arms encircling his waist.

Lost in blue-grey eyes.

Electrified with every brush of skin.

(Aware that Craig feels all of it, too. Aware that  _something's_  gotta give.)

...

This... was a bad idea. This was a very, very bad idea.

Thomas giggles a slow, clumsy giggle as he pushes his cup onto the nightstand. He isn't sure when they got upstairs of even  _how_ , but here they are. They're in his room, on his bed, tangled together against the headboard. His mouth tastes like rich, sour wine, and the furniture wobbles like it's walking around on stilts.

He turns his head towards Craig and finds the other boy staring up at the ceiling, neck arched and sharp, handsome face turned to catch the shadows left by the overhead light. He looks like some kind of Grecian statue with his long nose and his stillness.

(A gangly teenage Adonis in an ugly blue hat and a  _Red Racers_  nightshirt.)

Without realizing he's doing it, Thomas presses closer to him, nose against the underside of his jaw. He smells like lemon candy.

(He  _always_  smells like candy.)

"So what's your... why this Marty dude, man?" Craig says, words slurring and chin tilting back to allow Thomas easier access for... for whatever it is Thomas needs access for.

( _Kissing_ , his brain supplies. Tasting the salt on his friend's skin.)

"He's cute.  _Fuck_. He's fiery and he knows what hh— _holy shit, taste fucking good_. What he wants. He's zany." Thomas presses a harder kiss to Craig's pulse point, and the other boy squirms - lets out a huff of a chuckle that's happier than anything else Thomas has heard from him for months.

He chases the sound, laving his tongue against Craig's throat and reaching out to hold him still as the younger boy laughs a breathless laugh and struggles to get his words out.

"Z-zany? Ah ahaha. Dude, that's— what d'you even— how's  _that_  work?" Craig reaches up to push him away, hands wrapped around his biceps. "Stop, man. You're ticklin' me."

Nose-to-nose now, Thomas furrows his eybrows and thinks, yeah, that's enough. Shouldn't do this. Dumb idea. Drops his cheek down onto Craig's bony shoulder and says, "He doesn't care what people—  _fuck me, fuck me up_ — what people think. He teases m-me for my Tourette's instead of... of pretending it's not there. He accepts it's part of me.  _Aw, shit_. To him, I'm just... just Tom-Tom."

Craig snorts. "' _Tom-Tom_ '? Dude, that's lame. You and your boyfriend're lame." Arms encircle his back, a loose hug with hands that settle against the base of his spine.

That makes Thomas' heart hurt, and he can feel the sadness in his crumpling expression. "N-not boyfriends.  _Goddamnit, stupid shit_. And it's no worse than 'Tommy'."

Jolting, Craig turns his head like he's trying to meet Thomas' eyes. "Wait, you're not... not together? What happened, darlin'?"

' _Darling_ '.

Head swimming and fingers at Craig's hip, he struggles through the confusion at the nickname, and the mess of feelings in his head. Inhales the smell of sugar and citrus and salt. "We never talked—  _fuck_. Never talked 'bout it. I think he got mm- _motherfucker_ — he got mad I was always goin' on about you." Except he didn't 'think' it, he  _knew_  it. Marty hadn't liked having to share Thomas' time or attention, and had outright told him he felt like he was being pushed aside. That Thomas was being cruel.

("You're a fucking jerk. You're leading me on one minute, making me feel goddamn  _special_  like you wanna be with me, and the next thing I know, you don't talk all week because of  _Craig_. You even ditch all of us all summer, for some shithead boy who only wants you when it suits  _him_. He doesn't  _love_  you, Tom-Tom, and don't fool yourself into thinking he does. On top of everything else, you're a damn idiot, too.")

Eyes stinging, he doesn't bother trying to fight off the ugly, head jerking tics, the clenching and unclenching of his hands.

"You were talking about me?" Craig says, shuffling further down on the bed and dragging Thomas with him, paying no mind to the stupid, reflexive lurching. He runs a hand down over Thomas' back, and Thomas swears against his collarbone, gnashing teeth and shouting words that should have Craig wanting to be as far away from him as possible.

(No wonder he messes everything up.)

"A-all the time.  _Fuck, fucking, cockmaster, asshole_. Missed you.  _Shitting hell_. Only figured out how much after you went-- after our stupid damn ff- _fuckmeup_ — damn fight over me messing 'round with Mickey."

"That's the guy that gave you the hickey, huh?"

Through his tics, Thomas nods.

The taller boy's hand stop stroking over his ribs and somehow migrates to the bottom of his nightshirt, fingertips sinking below it and touching the skin at the dip of his lower back that has him shivering. Craig makes a thoughtful sound, like he doesn't even notice what he's doing. "I hated that guy, y'know. Was so mad you wouldn't, uhm, kiss me anymore. Y'didn't even tell me 'bout it 'til I found out myself. That was the worst part."

Those words echo through Thomas' head as he jerks against Craig's chest, swearing so heavily that for a while, he can't speak. Just twitches and shudders and breathes hard in between fierce expulsions of vulgar words and warm air.

Eventually, his tics calm and retreat, and he realizes he's sprawled out over Craig, their legs slotted between one another's and his mouth once again pressed to the other boy's neck. His shirt's shucked up around his ribs, and Craig's palm is flat against his overheating skin. He's tired and his head is spinning like crazy, his heartbeat a song in his ears that's drowning everything else out. "I thought you'd –  _aw shit_  – rather not do this— this stuff, once we both said about liking Tweek. That's why I stopped."

Sighing like he's dealing with an idiot (and really, perhaps he is), Craig somehow rolls them over, so he's the one pushing Thomas down into the mattress. "I wanted to. Kiss you, I mean. We've been doing it so long, s'weird not being able. I missed it."

" _Jesus fucking Christ_. Me too. Like breathing." Thomas swallows, looking up at Craig's shadowed face, thoughts slow and heart jumping. Electricity skips up and down him, dancing in the air and zipping along his spine at the brush of Craig's fingers migrating to his stomach. " _Aw, shit_."

He watches as Craig's eyebrows furrow, and pale eyes trail down his front – his still-heaving chest, his lopsided shirt, his flushed, tired face. "Think I was  _jealous_. I don't like sharing."

" _Ass, assmaster_." Even to Thomas' addled head, that doesn't make sense. "What about me, loving Tweek?"

"What about it?" Craig asks, nonplussed.

"Doesn't that make you –  _goddamn piece of shit_  – jealous?"

Craig's frown eases away into something softer again. "With you, it's different. You wouldn't steal him from me, the way that Mickey kid would've stolen you."

 _Idiot_ , Thomas thinks. No one could've stolen me like that. I'm always gonna be here.

Says, instead, something potentially very stupid: "He was good at doing things, but –  _stupid cocksucker_  – but I didn't like him. He didn't like me, either.  _Aw, shit_. We just had fun."

The way that Craig narrows his eyes at him makes Thomas' face burn. "You guys did a lot more stuff, didn't you? More than kiss."

Fidgeting and averting his eyes only does so much to help him avoid this conversation. " _Dipshit, cockfucker_. Y-yeah. I guess."

Then Craig's shifting, looking down at him in a way Thomas thinks he might understand very well, no matter how young and inexperienced he really is. "Tommy, what'd you guys do?" his best friend asks, a mix between a growl and a hum of thoughtfulness. His fingers brush over the slight curve of Thomas' belly, like an afterthought. The older boy trembles and fidgets.

That's all it takes – a curious, possessive friend that can't help but ask, can't help but want to hear more despite how it makes him angry.

Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the loneliness, or the hormones. Whatever the case, once he starts talking, it's impossible to stop.

Describes the time below the bleachers.

And in the locker room.

The boys toilets

The gym storage cupboard.

The stairwell behind Drama class...

It's like he's broken, mouth running away with him, body growing warmer the longer Craig stares and the more the younger boy's hand wonders.

Only when a wet, wine stained mouth slants over his (and did  _he_  do that? Was  _he_  the one to surge upwards, or was that his friend? Does it matter?), does he finally shut up.

And this is a bad idea – possibly the dumbest thing he's ever done – but... it feels right.

It feels  _good_.

(Until it doesn't.)

...

He never knew sex could hurt, could bruise and burn in places that he hadn't even known he had. Not just physically, but emotionally.

After he and Craig lose their virginity to each other, it's... messy. Awkward.

Mostly because he ends up curling onto his side and crying so hard he can't hear himself think. Bawling and shaking and hating that he's too drunk to understand why it hurts his heart so much that this wasn't special, that this wasn't something  _precious_. That he's probably messed everything up for him and Marty. For him and Craig.

For Craig and  _Tweek_ , if there was ever anything there to be ruined.

And Craig tries to comfort him, tries to reach out and stroke his back, but all he can do is flinch away.

The hunted, haunted look in Craig's eyes, when Thomas finally rolls over hours later. The swollen red of his cheeks, and the shine of wetness on his face, that says he's been crying silently the whole time.

The whisper of, "I'm s-sorry, I'm sorry, I always fuck everything up, I'm so stupid, I'm s-sorry, Tommy. Please don't hate me. I didn't m-mean to hurt you."

The way that he can't bring himself to comfort the other boy, beyond reaching out and weaving their fingers together.

Thomas  _knows_  that Craig didn't mean for it to go that far, but that doesn't change his heartache. It doesn't magically put things together again.

In that moment, he hopes that Craig will understand - will know that Thomas doesn't hate him for things going wrong. It's not their fault that neither of them knew what they were doing. These things  _happen_.

(God, he wishes that they didn't.)

But by the time that Craig leaves the next day, he thinks he's failed. He can't find the right words, and just the thought of touching and hugging and holding onto his childhood friend makes that pain come back, a hundred fold.

If possible, his best friend clambers up onto the train looking worse than when he got there.

He never knew that sex could makes his chest ache, and he'd like to think that this pain will go away quickly.

(It doesn't.)

...

Looking back in the years to come, Thomas will think of that holiday as the tipping point.

As the moment that everything went wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //awkward-jives out of the joint//
> 
> ;U


	6. and we're under no illusions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone!! :'O
> 
> (as always, editing will, er... come later...? heh heh''')

After a few days go by, he messages Marty and leaves a babbling, rambling essay on what a screw-up he is. It's got punctuation and actual grammar, and capitalization. He admits to what happened with Craig, about that horrible sense of  _wrongness_  that he'd felt. About how since their falling out before Craig came to stay, he's missed Marty a lot.

(He makes a point of saying several times that he's an idiot, and he doesn't deserve Marty as a friend, let alone more.)

All he gets in reply is, ' _I cant deal with this shit right now, and tbh it sounds like you cant either. Pls just do us both a favor and fuck off._ '

With no idea how to reply to that, he logs out. Tries half-heartedly to read his newest book. Stops after five minutes, when even just holding it open proves impossible with his tics.

And so it is that his second year of high school starts somehow even worse than the last. He's still partaking in his clubs, but there's no interest there. He's listless. Apathetic. Tired.

Mostly, he has no idea how to approach the mess with Craig. A week goes by, and then another, and finally he thinks on what happened between them – what  _really_  happened, and why he was so upset that night. (Why it still hurts to think about now.)

"Love sucks," he says to Gabriel one day in the library, slouching so far down in his seat that his sneakers stick out from one side of the table.

His friend, who's had his head bent over his senior year homework and is looking so lost it ought to be comedic, glances up with a hint of relief at the chance for a distraction. "Huh? Sorry dude, what?"

Thomas reaches up with both shaking hands and rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes. Clears his throat, and stares down at the paper-littered tabletop. "My –  _fuck_  –childhood friend's been in love with this kid for years now, and he's always talked about him nonstop.  _Asshole, useless dickhead, useless—_ " Thomas pauses his explanation in order to get through a short but enthusiastic series of tic. Shrugs his shoulders jerkily once they subside, chewing the inside of his cheek. "At some point I got hooked on all his –  _stupid shit_  – dumb stories. Sometimes hearing about his life was all I had. It got me through a lot."

Gabriel makes a throaty sound and gives a little 'carry on' hand wave that Thomas sees from the corner of his eyes, but it takes a while for him to calm down enough to continue. (His head is throbbing, and his heels occasionally jump against the carpet, but he's already so bruised and beat up from the last few weeks, he barely notices.)

"I think I started developing feelings for the kid he was dating, because he sounded so similar to me.  _Aw, shit_. And my friend... I started clinging to him, too. Especially after he told me it wasn't a real relationship."

"What do you mean, 'it wasn't a real relationship'?" Thomas looks up to see the darker boy slouching back in his chair, head tilted slightly to one side.

"I mean they were faking being together because they thought it made their lives easier. Only it didn't," Thomas says, "because then he started falling for his fake boyfriend, and everything just went to hell. I think—  _assmaster, stupid fucking_...  _rrgh_. I think I ended up in more of a relationship with my friend than  _he_  did with his fake boyfriend." A bitter, watery chuckle forces its way out of his throat. He rubs his eyes and swallows down the long, low ache of loss. "We messaged and talked constantly, we practically went on dates.  _Fuck it._  We kissed. A lot. M-messed around.  _Stupid goddamn ass_. And we let things go too far because we were both sad and lonely. "

He thinks of Marty, bright and fiery, almost someone important enough to push his thoughts on Craig and Tweek out of his head. Almost— but not quite. Because Thomas hadn't  _let_  him, hadn't trusted him with that sort of power. He'd been comfortable in a static, unmoving observer's role, watching as Tweek made Craig grow and shrink, flourish and wilt in turn. And then, whenever Craig came to him for some sort of support, Thomas had snatched up everything he'd offered, ravenous in his loneliness, all-consuming in his greed.

Craig wasn't faultless in what happened – not by any stretch of the imagination – but neither was Thomas.

And now all of them have to suffer, just because Thomas hadn't been able to bear not getting his way.

Folding his arms on the table, Thomas presses his face against his sleeves to force away the sting of encroaching tears. He doesn't deserve to cry.

A warm, heavy palm settles on his shoulder. "Look, man," Gabe says in a surprisingly low voice, "I'm not gonna pretend I know what you're talking about, or how to fix things, but... you guys had sex, right?" Thomas doesn't raise his head, just nods jerkily against his arms and twitches. "Well, that's your problem. You're thinking of this in terms you don't need to. Long and short of it is, it's just sex. That's all."

No, Thomas thinks, that's  _not_  all. Not by a long shot.

He doesn't say anything else. Just sits up, digs his knuckles into his eyes until his leg stops with the tics, and breathes out. Tries to turn his attention back to his work, with no success.

The hand on his shoulder gives one last pat before it's lifted away.

"If you're really friends, then you'll work it out. Eventually."

(That's a lot less consolation than he would have liked, but Thomas supposes he's just not that lucky.)

...

He writes to Marty after a week, trying to broach the subject a second time - to get a response at all.

For his efforts, he's blocked.

...

Somewhere towards the end of September, the silence between him and Craig finally breaks.

The younger boy sends him a link. No greetings, no endearments, no promises. Just a music video.

03:31  
_[/watch?v=NSxQw3vrwOg](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NSxQw3vrwOg) _

When he eventually opens it after almost an entire day of hesitating, he's curled up on the floor against the radiator. His toes sink into the carpet and his fingers dig into his sides.

The song floats through his room, soft and sweet. Strumming guitar and high vocals.

It's so different from anything Craig normally listens to, he finds it hard to reconcile with the other boy.

Only afterwards, once the song's come to an end and he's left sitting in the silence of the dark, empty house, does he realize it.

This isn't a song Craig would usually like, but then it wasn't  _for_ Craig. It's something he found for Thomas. He  _found_  it for him.

With that realization, he folds down into the tightest ball he can, and he cries. Sobs rattle through the cold rooms and rebound off of the bare walls.

At least when he's alone, he can be as loud as he wants.

...

He plays the song on repeat for almost a week, listening to it as he changes in the mornings, on the way to school, in the shower, as he goes to sleep. With his mom off at work or out on dates now more than ever, and Thomas having less friends or acquaintances outside of his club activities, that week the song is his only distraction. His only company.

Every time he listens to it, he feels more lost than the last. There's this great, gaping hole where their friendship used to be, and this dread that he'll never really work up the guts to fix it. Or, like in the case with Marty, he'll try to fix it too late.

At the end of the week, he pulls himself together and deliberates over a reply. Everything from a rambling apology to self-deprecating jokes run through his head on an endless loop. When he's feeling frustrated, he considers just telling Craig that he doesn't want to deal with this anymore, like Marty did – that they should just end it before they screw up anymore than they already have.

In the end, he goes for something simple.

17:09  
_what happened wasnt either of our faults._  
_but we shouldnt have drank that much._

The response comes an hour later, as he's pulling a steaming pot of instant ramen towards him and peeling off the lid. He's made himself feel queasy thinking over the message and whether or not he wrote the right thing, but he knows his mom'll worry if he doesn't eat, and ramen is (debatably) better than nothing. (The strong scent of sesame and salt makes his stomach turn.)

When his phone pings, he pulls it towards him with twitching hands.

18:14  
_i hurt you_

His eyebrows lower into a glower, and he curses out a stretch that leaves his throat sore. He's stubbed his toe on the leg of the table.

18:22  
_we were idiots._  
_we hurt each other._  
_we were both responsible._

In the wait following that comment, he inhales a huge mouthful of steaming noodles, struggles to slurp them down, and ends up with a hacking cough when one of them gets stuck halfway down his throat. By the time he's stumbled across the kitchen to grab an emergency glass of water, half choking on a lung, Craig's replied.

18:24  
_i cant_  
_i hurt u_  
_i cant stop thinking about it_

Well then, that makes two of them, he thinks, slumping back down and sipping on his drink. His throat burns.

18:28  
_i dont know what you want me to say. this wont go away just because we want it to._

They should both know from past experience that that's not how issues are resolved. You can't just will them away; you can't just magic them better.

18:29  
_i kno_  
_im sorry_  
_im sory_

Thomas pushes the cup ramen further away, hunching in the chair. He feels sick. He feels like he might actually be sick.

This needs to be resolved. They've got to talk about it properly. If they let it fester...

He shakes that thought off, and types out his next message as fast as he can.

18:31  
_are you alone right now?_

It's stupid to hope. Craig's probably with Tweek. He's probably too busy to talk—

The reply is almost instant.

18:31  
_yh_ _  
_yes_ _

Exhaling a long, shaky breath, he fights to calm the nervous spasms of his stomping, kicking foot and his jerking shoulder. Yells a sharp, ringing curse.

18:32  
_im phoning you._

Ten minutes of aggressive tics later, his muscles in his upper back are seizing up, and he's bashed the underside of the table with his knee hard enough that he thinks it won't ever stop throbbing. It takes several tries to hit the call button, but when he does and the tinny ringing sounds against his ear, he freezes.

Barely three rings in, the call is answered with a loud click and a rustle.

"Tommy," Craig says, voice rough. There's shuffling noises in the background. Craig must be moving around a lot. "Hey."

He swallows, opens his mouth, and says as lightly as possible, "Hh-hi, Craig." Runs a trembling hand through his hair. "I w-wanted to chat because I— I—  _fuck it up, fuck, you dumb fucker_. I have something I need to say."

A rush of air and a soft  _thwump_ , like he's flopped down onto his bed. "Something to say?"

"Yeah." He grips at the edge of the table until his knuckles go white. "I—  _stupid shit_ — I think that we need to speak about this in person first though, okay? I don't wanna just do this over the phone."

"Okay." A pause. "Okay, can you tell me what it is?"

Squeezing his eyes shut and ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest, he says with forced calm, "We need to talk about whether we're in a relationship. A romantic one."

There's a painfully long silence, following that statement.

...

Later, after the call ends, Thomas goes upstairs and takes his cold ramen with him. He chucks it down the toilet, rinses the cup out in the upstairs basin and leaves it on the windowsill as he has a bath.

Below the surface of the water he runs his fingertips over the motley of bruises all over his legs – from his swollen red kneecap, to his green-and-yellow shins and his dark, bloody toes. Can't help the way his head knocks back against the rim of the tub, and his ears ring.

(Tells himself he's tried to do the right thing. He's tried to be mature about all of this, and that's all he  _can_  do.)

...

They meet at the train station less than two weeks later.

Thomas has met him there a hundred times over, has hugged him on the platform, has walked with him through LoDo, has kissed him in alleyways. They might as well have been dating for years, he thinks.

(Like Craig said a few months ago, he might have actually considered it in another lifetime, had things turned out differently.)

This time, they walk in silence to a coffee shop Thomas found during all the months they spent apart.

It's tiny, barely even a hole in the wall. There are only six four-seater tables in total, crammed close together along the narrow stretch of flooring. The walls are lined with old books and monochromatic photos. There are flickering candles set out on each of the tables, along with handmade menus and a little card stating the wifi code. The whole shop is filled with steam and shrieking from the coffee machines behind the counter, drowning out the tinny, muffled noise of the radio the barista is trying to listen to.

Picking the table furthest towards the back of the shop, they order their drinks and sit, eyes cast away from one another and shoulders tense. Aside from some college student bent over a laptop right by the counter, they're currently the only customers.

For the first five minutes of silence, up until the barista brings them over their orders (Americano for Craig and hot cocoa for Thomas), he tries not to make it obvious that he's staring. The thing is, Craig...

He's practically unrecognisable, slumped down in a way that makes him look boneless. A puppet with cut strings. His chin is darkened by the sparse beginnings of stubble, the hair that peeks out of his hat is lank and, while he's still thin, there's more to it now. He looks... sick. Definitely physically unwell.

"You're still not eating properly," Thomas says, poking at his marshmallows with the edge of his spoon and making them drown, before releasing them and watching them bob back up to the surface.

"No," says Craig. "No appetite."

"Are you sleeping, either?"

"No," the younger boy repeats.

Thomas sets the spoon aside with a loud clink. Startles himself and curses. His friend doesn't so much as flinch – just keeps on staring listlessly into the depths of his untouhced coffee.

" _Aw, fuck it_. I'll be honest, Craig," he says, words quiet but blunt. "I'm worried about you.  _Goddamn shithole_."

That catches Craig's attention. Dull blue eyes drag themselves up to his face. "You shouldn't be."

(The " _I don't deserve it_ ," might be unsaid, but that doesn't mean it goes unheard. It just makes Thomas angry.)

"Do you consider me your friend?" he asks, maybe a little too forcefully. His fingers are clutching the table so hard that they're turning bone-white.

The younger boy blinks. Nods once the words sink through his thick skull. "Of course."

"So you've gotta know how seeing you like this feels for me." Sinks his teeth into his tongue. "You know what—  _nrr, asshole, dicklord_. You know how bad it feels when you see  _Tweek_  like this."

"It's not the same." There's no heat to the words – like he's not even listening.

"How're we supposed to have a conversation right now, Craig?" He runs a hand through his hair and tries to steady his breathing. " _Selfish— garbage, selfish piece of shit_. How are we meant to talk things through if you're barely even  _here_?"

Nothing. To that, Craig says nothing. Just picks at the nail of his thumb.

Thomas' eyes sting. It feels like between their conversation over the phone and this moment, another new barrier's gone up.

"You wanna go about it this way? I'll make –  _shit_  – a deal with you, then," he says. Leans back in his seat and wraps his foot around his chair leg to stop it from bashing into the table, or kicking out. The muscles spasm painfully, but he just grits his teeth and bears it. "You've got two options.  _Fuckitall_."

"What?" Anyone who didn't know Craig well might think he sounds bored; to Thomas, he sounds resigned.

"First," he says slowly, tasting the words on his tongue, "you let me help you find a therapist you like. You go to the doctors and you start working on your problems. Try the meds they give you, start eating again, try looking after yourself. Learn how to process what you're going through  _properly_."

All he gets is a quiet, "Or?"

The fact that there's no fight in him when he hears this makes Thomas deflate. It's a horrible thing to admit, but a part of him had hoped that it might inspire some anger or rashness.

He clenches his jaw. Fights through the sinking of his heart and his stomach. " _Bastard, selfish— bastard_. Or after we finish this conversation, we stop being friends. No more texts, no more visits, no  _nothing_."

Thomas won't just sit back while Craig keeps withering away in front of him, but he won't bear the burden of Craig's mental health alone anymore, either. They're both just stupid kids, stuck in this awful situation they shouldn't be stuck in, and it's taken its toll on both of them. Thomas knows that he can't go on this way forever, blindly trying to save someone who won't save themselves. Perhaps Craig's noble like that with Tweek, but Thomas isn't. His self-preservation may be frightfully small, but it still outlasts his best friend's.

When the quiet between them stretches on, deafening and unwavering, it seems that the finality of this statement starts to sink in to the younger boy's head. He looks at Thomas – really looks – and Thomas just stares back. Fights down nervous racing of his pulse to see Craig blink his way out of the fog. To see his eyebrows furrow, his lips thin.

A slow, assessing stare passes over him, from the scruff of his hair to his white knuckled hands, before Craig speaks up. Peers pointedly at the side of Thomas' face, like the sight only then registered. "You're bruised. Did someone hurt you?"

Heat rises in his cheeks at the statement. He fights the urge to turn his face away. There had been no way of predicting that he'd smash his own skull into the bookcase on his way through the dining room the other day – he certainly hadn't done it out of any kind of deeply buried desire to hurt himself. (That's the unfortunate thing about his Tourette's, especially now that his stress is making it more pronounced. Stuff like that just happens, and he has to work his way around it.)

"You know my tics are getting worse," he says simply. "That's not the point of this conversation."

"No," says Craig. "I guess it's not." He pushes his coffee away. Does the same to his chair, filling the space with a resounding screech of metal over floorboards. "I wish you'd told me this over the phone, before I came here."

"Craig." For the first time since sitting down, Thomas' voice cracks. "You know that—  _fuck_. You know that wasn't everything."

"I need time to think on this," is all his friend says before he reaches for his rucksack, drags it up onto his shoulder and walks out of the shop.

In the stillness that follows, Thomas swallows thickly. Doesn't pick up his cup. Doesn't do anything other than stare out at the street and the colourful blurs of passing bodies until almost an hour later.

Then he stands from the table, throws down a few notes to pay for the drinks and heads back towards his empty house and his empty life.

...

Midway through October, he logs onto Discord to find that he's been removed from the group chats he was in with his friends from camp.

Only a short message from Punyaa is given, by way of explanation.

' _I removed you from the group after hearing a little of what happened between you and Marty. Until he comes to you to sort things out, I thought this would be easier. You're still our friend._ '

Funny, but it sure doesn't feel that way.

...

By the time he finally hears back from Craig, he's pretty much given up all hope. He's regretted his harsh words every day for two months, backtracked and almost broken under the fear that he might lose his best friend over this.

There have been a lot of tears spilt between them over the course of the last few years, and during the bad times it's hard to remember why they keep being drawn back together. Aside from his regular sessions with his private therapist, where he's as honestly as he can be about the mess that his life's turned into, he keeps it to himself.

Keeps  _everything_  to himself.

One short text from Craig, though, and he's not sure how he's managed it for so long.

14:27  
_please, Tommy_  
_if u still think u can help, if you still want to_  
_i dont think i can deal with this much longer  
i just want it to end_

Wishing that he'd waited until he got home from school to read it doesn't change his reaction. He stumbles through the busy halls to one of the restrooms, locks the main door behind him and collapses. Cries like he had in his room, rocking back against the wall, mouth agape, eyes squeezed shut.

(Imagines a world in which Craig had turned down his deal, and he'd never known what might have happened to his friend.)

...

Every weekend for the next two months, Thomas goes with Craig to preliminary appointments. Sits in the waiting rooms clutching his hands. As he waits for Craig to re-emerge from the doctors' rooms, he finds himself holding his breath, staying as still and quiet as his Tourette's allows him to. Inevitably, he shakes. Curses. Kicks and tics until he's forced to apologize to countless receptionists and patients.

He goes through the familiar humiliation of judging eyes and muttered comments, just for the hope that Craig will have found a therapist he clicks with – knows that it'll be worth it, in the end.

New habits form between them in that time. Craig is almost always silent and introspective, hanging back and allowing Thomas to take the lead wherever they go. They eat sandwiches or wraps or toasted bagels from whatever food places they can find afterwards, and they wander like they did as ten-year-old kids. Aimless, voiceless.

The only time that Craig deviates from their slow, meandering walks is when he spots a bookstore. Then it's Thomas' turn to follow – Thomas' turn to trail behind. Mostly Craig takes them to the sci-fi sections, standing in front of the shelves and staring with wide, empty eyes until Thomas takes one down. He'll open at a random page and he'll just read in low tones, like he used to over mic. All the while, Craig will lean against a wall or the shelving. He'll shut his eyes and listen.

(The scent of fresh paper and ink wraps them up together, just for a brief spell.)

Rules have changed. Limitations have been clearly marked.

There's no more staying the night. The younger boy gets fidgety after a few hours away from home, like there's an itch in his feet trying to drag him back. Tweek is a magnet to him, and he never wants to be gone for too long. Thomas isn't left unaffected by his friend's distraction or by his preoccupation, but he never takes it personally. Craig is in love, and the person that he loves isn't well. (The thought eats into Thomas from all sorts of odd angles.)

Some things almost stay the same.

They text. Slowly at first, but by small increments their conversations grow. They talk about inconsequential things, unimportant things. Things that he lives and breathes for.

For his part, Thomas goes through all of the repetitive motions of his day-to-day life, cleaning and eating and sleeping as best he can. He looks forward to seeing Craig – gets anxious and struggles to contain himself, the same way he had in the mornings before elementary school, when all he'd ever dreamed of was having his very own friends. (An unwilling return to the uncertainty of his early childhood.)

By the time they meet up, he's almost always made himself sick with worry or excitement or— or  _something_ , and he always feels that now-familiar ache at the thought of another day gone by without broaching the conversation of their relationship.

It's hopeless to wish for something that won't come to pass, though.

Real communication stops altogether. They don't discuss what's going on at home for Craig, mainly because he never mentions it himself, and the few times Thomas tries to start up a conversation, all the blood drains out of Craig's face. All of the life, too. He turns back into an unresponsive husk.

So he doesn't. Despite his reservations, weeks go by and he lets the silences between them stretch on, scared of the ramifications that pushing might have. Yes, Craig should speak about his problems, but maybe he  _should_  just do it with a professional. They've tried talking about things before, and they've both seen what that results in.

Instead, doing what he always ends up doing when he's lonely, Thomas tries to find some respite in the company of relative strangers. He has school friends, few and far between though they might be, and extracurricular clubs that he's been active in since the beginning of high school. The extra work and socialisation just sap him of his energy and leave him feeling unfulfilled. Still, it gives him a chance to take up offers that he's almost always refused in the past.

Before, he'd mostly socialised with Gabriel in the school library, sitting and studying together at a table towards the back aisles where people couldn't get so easily annoyed about his tics. Occasionally they'd hang out after hours with the rest of Gabe's gang of older friends, though for Thomas those times were fairly rare.

Now though, he begins to seek out the older boy between classes. He's possibly the only person in the entire school that Thomas has had even vaguely personal conversations with. Gabriel welcomes him with open arms and goofy jokes, drawing him into his group like he thinks Thomas  _belongs_ there.

And really, they're an okay group. Loud and popular enough to make waves without meaning to, though well meaning. They all know him from previous interactions or from clubs – those brief moments in the past when Thomas had attempted to be a little less of a recluse. Eating with them more often at lunch quickly becomes a habit, and he notices that the other kids his age – the ones that might have caused him problems in the past – give him more space than ever.

No one in his year group talks to him unless they're forced to – not even to tease or bitch at him. They barely deign to look his way. Thomas doesn't need telling how twisted it is for him to feel... isolated from them, for that. Tells himself it's wrong to crave that kind of attention. Tells himself he deserves better.

(Adds it to his list of reasons for loathing himself. It's already pretty long.)

…

' _I miss you, Marty_ ,' he writes in a letter, agonizing over the shape and spelling of every word. ' _I miss you so much._ '

He doesn't think twice before sending it off, just prays that perhaps he'll eventually hear back.

It returns unopened.

…

When Christmas decorations begin to appear throughout the city, he and Craig make a habit of travelling to see them. They bundle up in extra layers and, hand-in-hand so they don't get lost in the slowly building crowds, they explore unseen stretches of Denver. They go Christmas shopping, stumbling through flooded malls and packed out stores. Thomas makes them canisters of hot cocoa or mint tea and they sit in parks and green patches, breath fogging up into white clouds and faces turning pink.

With midterms over and no school to distract him during the holidays, he's found it hard to stay afloat. Winter is never great for him, but this year's especially unpleasant thanks to his mom's newest boyfriend practically moving in with them and flipping their careful, quiet traditions on their heads. Craig's and Marty's absences in his everyday life – in their freely given thoughts, their long mic calls and their inside jokes – has shown Thomas that despite his best efforts, he's still alone.

Despite the fact that they text more during the break, sharing quotes they like from songs and books and news articles, it feels forced. At least on  _his_  end. He sends those things primarily to distract Craig from whatever might be going on at home, and to eat away at the countless hours he spends holed up alone.

He knows he smiles rarely and he knows he's more withdrawn during their meetups, but he's coping. Thinks that maybe things are getting better for Craig, since every now and then when he's curling his fingers around his steaming drink or studying Christmas displays, he can feel the weight of Craig's eyes on him. He never turns around. Never acknowledges it, in fear that it might stop.

Now and then Craig will step closer, will touch Thomas' shoulder or arm or hand, to get his attention. He listens when Thomas talks. The blonde doesn't dare hope for more.

...

After logging on to check for messages obsessively in the lead up to Christmas, he deletes Discord from his laptop and his phone.

He doesn't need the reminder of all the friends he's lost, or all the people he's hurt. There's no way of  _forgetting_  it.

...

Change finds the two of them on the twenty-ninth of December – a Saturday they set aside just for them. Just for exchanging presents. They spend the majority of it sitting in their favorite dive diner, picking at greasy fries and sipping sodas. Thomas reads aloud from the novel that Craig bought him for Christmas, and the younger boy peers out the window at the thick, grey sky.

It's after all of that, when they're at the station waiting for Craig's train to arrive, that Thomas' phone buzzes from his pocket. They're in one of the rest areas, packed full of shrieking children and sick, coughing adults. Where it's bitterly cold outside, the temperature's been amped up tenfold inside, leaving everyone uncomfortably sweaty in their thick winter gear.

Pulling his cell out of his coat pocket and looking down at the screen, he tugs his scarf loose and sighs – begins typing back a negative when he catches Craig looking his way again, silent but inquisitive.

(Distracted, he thinks. He was distracted and he broke the unspoken rule of  _don't look, don't look, don't meet his eyes_.)

He blinks out of his thoughts when Craig arches a dark brow. Tearing his eyes away from his best friend's face and peering down at the message, he shrugs in reply to the silent question.

" _Aw, shit. Fuck it_. My friend Gabe's invited me to a party tonight." His knee jumps as he reads back through the details. "Don't think I'll go."

"Why not?" Craig says. The words are hoarse, which isn't surprising since he's spoken maybe a handful of words all day. Thomas thinks he mustn't say much at home right now either, and that makes his heart hurt.

"It's gonna be a—  _goddamn dickheads, shitfest, fucking posers_. It's gonna be a big one, since it's at Scarlet's house." For clarification, he adds, "She's loaded, and she's super popular."

"You're in with the popular kids?" Craig tilts his head slightly to one side.

"Is that really so much of a surprise?" Thomas asks, leaning back against the cold metal seat and breathing through the stink of unwashed bodies and damp clothing that permeates the warm room. Shakes off the soft, blooming feeling in his chest at seeing something other than apathy on Craig's face. "But –  _fucking assmaster, douchebag_  – no. Not really. I'm... friends with Gabe, which gives me an in.  _Fuck_." Runs a hand through his hair. "They put up with me."

Under Craig's quiet scrutiny, Thomas' arm begins to jump up into the air: fingers clenching and unclenching, elbow jabbing out at an invisible enemy.

( _Don't look, he repeats like a mantra. Don't get your hopes up_.)

"You should go," the other boy says at length, and reaches out to tug Thomas' jerking limb into his lap. He locks their hands together tightly, letting Thomas' finger clamp and unclamp around his, and combatting the tensing muscles by sliding his free hand over the top of the older boy's suede sleeve.

Breath catching as he watches, Thomas' head twitches hard to one side a few times before the physical tics slowly trade out for the verbal kind.

A train comes and goes, bodies move and mill about, and the times on the board above them change. Outside the waiting room, snow's beginning to fall.

Eventually his locked muscles relax and he slumps back in his seat. Dares to let his head flop down onto Craig's shoulder. "I'll be alone," he says, still breathless. "You know I'm not great in busy places."

"Hn." Craig hums. He's still holding Thomas' hand, tight enough that it's beginning to ache. Of his own volition, the blonde gently wiggles his fingers. They've gone very pink. "What if... what if I came?"

Frowns. "To the party?  _Goddamn dickwad_."

"Yeah. We could go together. I could maybe... maybe stay at yours, after." A pause. "If that's cool."

Something warm surges through him, and he lifts his head, eyes wide. Craig looks back at him, the corners of his mouth soft, and he's breathless now for a whole new reason. "You'd... want to? Come with me?"

"Sure," says the younger boy, stretching out gangly legs.

Quite without his permission, Thomas' tired face pulls itself into a shy, hesitant smile.

"Okay," he says. And again, like the first time wasn't enough, "Okay. Let's go."

...

The party is mad, just like Thomas predicted. Most people are drunk already by the time they turn up at nine, and both boys wander through the house watching many mistakes unfold around them.

For not knowing anyone aside from Thomas, Craig seems weirdly relaxed. He tells him over the din of music, laughter and shouting that he's used to this sort of thing – that parties in South Park are always off the hook. In comparison, he explains, this is pretty tame.

(Thomas doesn't doubt it, considering half the stories he's been told before.)

They sip at a beer each and Thomas talks briefly with Darren and a few other guys he recognizes from the Drama club, but largely they stick to themselves, leaning against walls and sharing the odd observation.

At one point a heavily inebriated brunette girl – Stacey Evans from the Glee club, Thomas thinks – approaches Craig, attempting to glue herself to his front. The fifteen-year-old boy looks so horrified that Thomas can't help but smile. The sight of Craig Tucker attempting to extricate himself from the pink-nailed clutches of a very pretty girl probably shouldn't evoke such a surge of fondness, but he's helpless to deny it. Thomas slips his way under his best friend's arm and politely excuses them.

Eventually they decide to escape the noise of the huge house by slipping into the wide, well-manicured yard.

Running into Gabriel outside the conservatory and sharing a joint, the two of them listen to the senior boy's friendly chatter. Thomas sees the way Gabe looks between them, and he feels the heat rise up into his face. He doesn't think that Gabriel has any lingering interest in him – he certainly doesn't  _look_  hurt, despite seeing Craig's hand curled around his waist, or the habitual way that the younger boy steadies him when his tics grow overwhelming.

(Thankfully, his schoolmate has the decency not to say anything about it.)

By the time they head back to Thomas' place, his head and stomach are spinning. It's numbingly cold and the snow's a couple of inches thick on the ground already, but they've wrapped up in all the winter clothing they can.

He stops them outside the front door, tugs Craig close and smothers him in a hug. It feels like he's free-falling when Craig hugs him back.

...

That's the last happy memory he has of them together. He's sure that in the months before everything ends between them for good there are other moments, other brief glimpses of what things were like for them when they were children, but...

But growing up has changed them forever, and the precious moments are so overwhelmed by the bad that just staying afloat together takes a miracle.

Thomas will think back to how they'd hugged each other then, and he'll realise the reason they held on so tightly was because they both knew what would inevitably happen when they let go.

...

Valentine's Day, he is given two very different kinds of gifts.

The first is a letter for him that his mom must have set outside of his door before leaving for work.

Rubbing his tired eyes and walking down the stairs as he tears open the seal, he grabs the edge of the card and extracts it.

Stops rather suddenly mid-step. Stares down at his hands in bafflement.

It's... it's a heart. A hideous, wonky heart that looks like it was drawn in maybe five minutes. There's a huge brown stain on the front, which has made the red ink bleed out of its lines, transforming what was originally just an ugly drawing into something outright grotesque. Too lifelike.

Unsure what to make of it, he flips it open to find familiar, blocky writing.

_Tommy,_

_Another year gone and I guess this is as real as it gets for either of us, huh?_

_Still, if you'll be my Valentine's again this year (sinse neither of us can have that one special person), then I'd be honored. I don't derserve to have you as a friend, after every thing._

_Even though I'm a piece of shit and I don't ever do anything right (not even this), I love you man. You make every damn rejection worth while and you make every failure a little easier to live with._

_Be my Valentine?_

_Craig xxx_

_p.s._  
_You_ _should feel honored too. Tweek nocked his coffee all over my desk, which is why it's all smudged and brown. I thought you'd like the personal touch, in stead of me making you a new one. ;)_

Exhaling a long breath of air and pressing the creased letter to his chest in order to calm himself down, Thomas continues through to the kitchen.

After pouring himself out a bowl of Frosted Flakes and taking a seat at the table, letter in hand, he sets it in front of him and considers it properly.

Thomas' initial reaction to it is... sadness. Maybe anger. He rereads the whole thing, and finds his eyes drawn back to one particular line.

' _Still, if you'll be my Valentine's again this year (sinse neither of us can have that one special person), then I'd be honored._ '

His fingers tighten around his spoon. What does he mean, ' _be my Valentine's again_ '? They've  _never_ exchanged cards. They've  _never_ been a couple. Even when they were kissing and messing about, it was from curiosity. It was from  _loneliness_. Craig's made that perfectly clear from his unwillingness to discuss anything.

' _I guess this is as real as it gets…'_

There's no romantic love lost between them, but the implication of Craig having to  _settle_  for him because Tweek Tweak isn't emotionally available is just—

Not okay. It's not okay.

But that doesn't stop his heart quickening when he reads those four words: ' _I love you man_.'

A shaky sigh slips out of him as he buries his warm face in his hands.

' _I love you man_.'

Those words, they're the worst of all. His stomach flip-flops and he holds still – just breathes through the feeling of drowning, of spinning out of control.

And then, he pushes the hand-drawn card aside to finish his breakfast.

(It feels like a goodbye.)

It isn't until several hours later that he gets his second Valentine's gift.

...

Lunch break is raucous and wild, full of couples being obnoxious and singles being bitter. Apparently to ninety percent of the teens in the school, this whole day is simultaneously the best and worst thing that's ever happened to them.

Thomas stomachs being at the table with Gabe's gang for as long as he can, listening to the lonely-hearted bemoan their situations like they'll die alone, and watching the couples display enough public affection that the dinner monitors have to get involved to break things up. Only when Scarlet turns her attention away from one of her female friends and asks Thomas about  _his_  love life (or tragic lack thereof) does Thomas excuse himself. Doesn't allow himself to think of the ugly, fake Valentine's card sat beside his bed.

He's walking through the corridors towards his locker, planning to prep early for his next class, when his phone buzzes from his back pocket.

 **Contact: Unknown**  
13:38  
_Is this Tommmy ?_

Eyebrows rising, the blonde moves off to one side of the hallway so he doesn't get in the way of passing students.

After a little consideration over who this could possibly be, considering so few people know of that nickname, he types back with clammy fingers. His breath rattles with his nervousness – with his hope.

13:40  
_no. its Tomtom._

When minutes stretch by with no reply, he starts worrying his reply came across as too rude. Adds on:

13:45  
_..._  
_Marty. is that you?_ _  
did you get a new number._

Please, he thinks.  _Please_  let it be Marty.

13:46  
_No._

Heart sinking, he chews his lip. If it's not Marty, then who could it be? Is this meant to be some kind of a game?

13:46  
_Punyaa?_

13:46  
_No._

Huffs and shifts his weight when his leg tics.

13:47  
_Gabe?_

13:48  
_N.o_

He resists the urge, though only barely, to drop his damn phone right there on the floor and walk off. Confused beyond belief, he once again considers the Valentine's card. Although he's not been one for practical jokes for the last few years, Craig used to pull weird stuff like this every now and then when they were kids.

The thought is vaguely frustrating. If this is Craig's way of pulling his leg...

13:49  
_this is Craig isnt it._  
_is this about the card you sent? i get it okay. it was a joke._  
_..._  
_hello. you still there. are you using Ruby's phone._  
_... ._  
_IS this Ruby._  
_..._  
_look if this is a joke it isnt funny._

That, apparently, does the trick.

13:51  
_Its not Craif._  
_I'mj ust hus froen._  
_*Im his friend._  
_You don''t knwo me._  
_BUt I need to speak to you._  
_Weneed tospeak._

Everything around Thomas fades out of focus. Space is a vacuum around him. He curses loudly, but can't hear it through the ringing of his ears.

All he manages to write in reply is one word.

13:53  
_who._

(He knows the answer already.)

13:55  
_M yname is Tweek._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE!!!**  
>  in case anyone's missed, there's a new chapter up of the _unresolved_ , as well as two other fairly new stories in the series:  
> a craig-centric one-shot, called [_uncharted_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16244087)  
>  and a kenny-centric multi-chapter, called [_undone_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17318432/chapters/40739822)  
>  if you decide to pay them a visit, i hope that you enjoy!! <33
> 
> ( **also** , all current character and story playlists can be found on the series page, [_here_](https://archiveofourown.org/series/956469))


	7. broken wings, bloody feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god i'm on holiday in a place with no wifi and i am stressed out of my mind, lmao. we're in a pub in the middle of no where rn and it's dark and hailing outside, but i'm sooo happy to be updating this hellspawn of a fic, it's unreal. :'U
> 
> (i'll edit it next time i have internet - so probably like... this weekend. maybe. lol.)

09:04 _  
hey let me know when you get here. im in LoDo now._

09:07 _  
_5 minuets man.__

09:14  
_outside Union Station now. where are you._

09:18 _  
By door.S blond ehair. bllack coat._

09:18 _  
i see you._

...

Almost two whole months later, they meet.

It's turning into a sunny day despite the sharp breeze whipping through the streets, and it's packed. As he's approaching the other boy, Thomas thinks tiredly that of  _course_  they were unlucky enough to pick one of the busiest Saturdays since Christmas on which to meet up. Of  _course_  they were.

Heart racing and palms sweaty, he pushes through the crowd and once Tweek finally looks in his direction, raises a hand in greeting. There's nothing returned.

Huge greens eyes are a stark contrast to pale skin, and his heart-shaped face is almost obscured by a halo of wild blonde hair. He stands and he stares through Thomas like he's seen a ghost, eyes slipping from his face and into the crowded street behind him. There's a brittleness, Thomas thinks from barely ten feet away. A brittleness in the way he stands, in the way his huge rucksack engulfs his back. A brittleness in the tilt of his head and his rattling, uneven breaths.

Thomas remembers once when he was six, and the family cat brought home a scrub jay. The bird was still alive, and had somehow managed to get free of its captor. It had tried to fly across the living room with a bloody wing, leaving a cloud of beautiful, blue and grey feathers in its wake. Thomas had stumbled towards the shrieking, flailing creature after chasing the cat away with thrown cushions and waved hands. He'd stood over it and stared at its gaping beak and its rapidly rising chest as he'd shouted for his mom. It's black-button eyes had spun about the room like it didn't know where it ought to look.

That's what Thomas sees now as he gazes Tweek Tweak - a pretty little bird with broken wings and eyes trying to swallow the whole world.

"Tweek?" he says as he reaches the younger boy.

A glassy stare turns again on him, nose scrunching and eyebrows drawing together. " _Oh God, oh Jesus see me through this,"_ he's saying, again and again, turning his phone over in scabbed hands that shake harder than Thomas' during his worst tic attacks.

When there's no response after several more tries, Thomas reaches out and gently touches the thick sleeve of his coat. Fingers twitch but Tweek just keeps on watching without seeing, muttering without meaning. His stomach performs a sickening lurch.

Without thinking on it any longer, he grabs a hold on one thin wrist (painfully thin, so thin it might snap) and gives him a slight tug. Tweek babbles and blinks, but his feet move, and all Thomas can think is to take him somewhere quieter, somewhere safer. He's probably just overwhelmed.

(So  _thin_.)

They walk slowly, Thomas shouting swearwords and flailing an arm like he's trying to fight off an imaginary aggressor, and Tweek stumbling behind him, glazed and mumbling.

Around halfway through LoDo, a stranger barges by them, bashing into Tweek's shoulder and startling a loud wail from him. Something hot and angry burns through Thomas, and he spins on the businessman with a snarl.

"Watch where you're walking, asshole." He shouts so loud the smaller boy cringes again, and the heat is almost instantly extinguished. He pulls Tweek closer, whispers, "I'm sorry, I—  _fuckers, stupid fuckers—_ I didn't mean to startle you. I'm so sorry."

It's no use; Tweek whimpers and sinks his free hand into his hair, torn nails tugging so hard his head bends to accommodate the pressure.

And Thomas is at a loss. Drawing Tweek in closer, he turns and keeps going, putting himself between the younger boy and the rest of the world. Whenever Tweek's feet catch on the pavement, he slows - gives him a chance to right himself.

It's only when they get to the tiny coffee shop that his nerves start to calm. (If anything goes wrong here, at least there are adults around that he even vaguely recognizes - at least he can ring his mom and get her to come and pick them up.)

He holds open the door as they enter, glancing down at Tweek as he gulps great mouthfuls of air and twitches.

" _Nrrgh_. W-where—" The noise he makes is one of rasping panic.

"In a coffee shop a couple blocks from the station," Thomas says in a soft voice, ducking close to his ear to be heard even though he doesn't know if Tweek understands him at all.  _"Aw , shit_. I thought we should go somewhere quieter. Less busy."

There are several college students scattered around as usual, headphones in and faces ducked down behind the glowing screens of their laptops. The barista at the counter is busy whipping together a hot drink, the machine billowing steam and long, high hisses. No one pays the two young boys any mind after an initial glance in their direction. They're surrounded by warm steam and fingers tapping on keyboards and the rich smell of roasted coffee grounds, tucked away from the rush and bustle of the world.

Thomas takes a step further inside and pauses. Looks over his shoulder.

The younger boy's feet stick to the floor, refusing to move. Following his instincts, he slips his grip down to Tweek's palm, wrapping his fingers around a cold, bony hand. This draws Tweek back to himself long enough that he tries to tug himself free.

"It's okay," Thomas says, refusing to let go. "We're nearly there."

He guides Tweek through the shop to his favourite table right at the back, fingers slipping away from icy skin as soon as they reach it. He drags out a chair for the other boy. When there's no acknowledgement of the gesture, he settles a hand on each of Tweek's narrow shoulders and guides him down into the seat. Those huge, glassy green eyes - Craig was right, specks of gold and brown and red like turning leaves - jump from one thing to the next. This close up, any brightness in them is totally overruled by the huge, bruise-like bags and the sickly pallor to his skin. There's a thin sheen of sweat around his temples, sticking down stray blonde hairs, and his lips are pink and raw.

(He's got moles, some distant part of Thomas notices. Two moles on his jaw, and another peeking out from under his scarf, just below his ear.)

"I'll be back in a minute, once I've gotten us some coffee, okay? You'll be alright?" He hesitates a moment. "God, you're so –  _fuck_  – so pale..." Steps back, biting down on the inside of his cheek and tearing his eyes away.

He orders Tweek an Americano the same as Craig had, and a hot cocoa with marshmallows for himself. Hovers by the counter despite the barista offering to bring it over to them. Perhaps he's just unwilling to be near Tweek without any kind of distraction – perhaps he wants to stand here and watch him a while to try and find his bearings.

(Wonders when it was that he became such a coward.)

By the time he's got the tray with their drinks and he's walking back towards the younger boy, Tweek's woken enough to pull his rucksack off of his shoulders and down onto his lap, curling in on it as if it's the most precious thing in the world. His attention snaps upwards, and then he's looking up into Thomas' face like it might hold the answers to all of lifes mysteries.

He stares and he stares, and then the glassiness breaks. Fat tears roll down his cheeks, one after another. Thomas sets the tray down with shaken nerves and a too-loud  _clink_ , and folds down into his own seat opposite.

"I l-love hi—  _urgh_ — him. I love him," he's saying, face twisted and teeth bared at the table. Tears drip from his button nose and onto his sore knuckles. " _Nnrgh_ , Jesus h-help me, I love him s-so much."

And in that moment, in a burst of piercing clarity, Thomas gets it. There's a pain in his throat and his chest and his stomach – a sympathetic ache that only grows deeper the longer the quiet stretches on around them, following the boy's declaration.

Tweek loves Craig. He's  _in_  love with him. Maybe he has been all along.

(Oh God, it hurts. It hurts  _so much_  to think that this could have been prevented. This is  _his_  fault.)

"I know," he says, barely managing to get those words out. They're thick and slow on his tongue. Lumbering. And he  _does_  know. In this moment, Tweek's love is startlingly transparent. "I'm sorry."

"A-and I wan— wanted to hate you, wh-when I heard. Wanted so –  _aurgh_  – so bad to get back at you both. Wanted so  _bad_ —" He breaks off into a deep, strangled sob that cuts right through Thomas. "But I  _couldn't_."

Eyes burning and heart turned to lead, Thomas rummages in his jacket pocket for a fresh tissue and, without really considering that what he's doing might be wrong, he presses it to Tweek's cheeks – tries wiping away that sadness. He tilts the other boy's chin up with the fingers of his free hand and he shoves aside his urge to break down too.

(He doesn't have that right.)

"Shh, it's okay, it's okay," he says, even though it's the worst tasting lie he's ever told.

Apparently it is to Tweek too, because his eyes fire up and he tries to jerk his chin away. "N- _no_. No, it's n- _not_. He –  _urgh_  – hates that I'm gay. He  _hates_  it. Every time we're pr-pretending to be together he— he flinches away from me. Doesn't wanna hold hands or, or hug me." He breathes raggedly, shoves at Thomas' hands so that he's forced to withdraw, curling the damp tissue into a bundle on his lap. "H-he gets angry, too, whe-never we're alone. Always leaves m-me.  _Eurnn_. Doesn't— doesn't hang out, or talk anym-more. Like... like I'm diseased."

No, Thomas thinks. No, he loves you more than anything. He's told you a hundred times, confessed over and over until he's sick of it – until he's sick of reaching out and getting ignored or turned down. That's right, isn't it? That's what Craig's told him. He trusts Craig implicitly. He  _trusts_ him. Hundreds of rejections over and over, eating into him.  _That_ was Craig's reality. So how did this happen? Why, then—

But Tweek keeps on speaking, and Thomas struggles back out of his spiralling thoughts. "But –  _nnn_  – not you. Y-you're okay. He let's  _you_  touch him, huh? He –  _heurgh_  – he's  _fine_  with you."

The words are a slap in the face – a punch in the gut – because... because they're not  _true_. They're so completely wrong that he thinks he should laugh, that he  _aches_  with it. Craig's  _never_  loved Thomas that way. The reason they kissed was because Craig couldn't  _have_  the boy that he wanted, and neither could Thomas. For Craig, Thomas was an easy alternative – a filler and a replacement for real feelings that he believed weren't reciprocated. A stand-in for actual investment and love. There was nothing dangerous about them messing around, nothing for Craig to lose other than an unbalanced, co-dependent friendship. And Thomas went along with it willingly, because he'd already opened his heart up to Craig, to his wonderful stories and his pale blue eyes. It was easier lying to himself – easier to keep on pretending that it  _wasn't_  real love for him – rather than learning from his repeated mistakes. Thomas would rather live in denial of his love than acknowledge the situation for what it was.

Craig was lost and Thomas was a coward and together they let everything fall apart.

And so here they are, Craig Tucker's fake boyfriend sat across from the real deal: Thomas on one side, and Tweek on the other.

Two boys in love with the same guy, and for only one of them that love is reciprocated.

(Because that's what this has been all along, Thomas realizes with a hollow pang. For him, somewhere along the lines friendship and messing around skewed into something  _more_. It twisted into a sense of devotion. He'd acted like ignoring his feelings for Craig solved the problem, and he hadn't bothered  _trying_ with Marty or with Mickey or with Gabriel because having Craig there as a 'friend' was a good excuse not to invest his time and his emotions elsewhere. He'd been hurt in the few moments he'd ever considered his feelings for Craig as something more – had been unwittingly snubbed by the other boy – and so he'd closed his heart off to other chances of finding love. He'd buried his head in the sand and let things carry on when he should have  _noticed_.)

He swallows down the burn of loss and self-loathing that those thoughts entail and blinks hard to stave off tears he's sure he doesn't deserve to cry.

"That stuff's not –  _nng_  – not the reason I went— not the reason I came here though, man," Tweek says, quieter and clearer that before. Thomas watches as the younger boy clutches his bag tighter, shoulders hunched. "I c-came be— because I've got some... some stuff I wanna give you." A crack in his voice.

A pause.

And then he says something that makes no sense to Thomas at all.

"After that, he's –  _hrrn_  – all yours."

(This isn't how the story's meant to go.)

...

Not long after they've finished their conversation – a large canvas bag sat by Thomas' feet under the table and Tweek's rucksack a lot emptier – Tweek slips away from him again.

He slumps down in the chair with his crumpled bag hugged to his chest, and he shakes. Looks for all the world like Craig had when he'd sat there: a marionette with cut strings. No purpose.

" _Aw, shit_. Your coffee," Thomas says, desperate to try and draw some life back into the other boy. He only manages a whisper. "It's gonna g-get cold."

(He'd tried to refuse the bag – had shoved it back at Tweek with a little too much force – but the boy had just cried harder and louder. He'd only calmed down once Thomas had taken it from him, face stained pink with his shame.)

When there's no reaction, the last bit of restraint goes out of Thomas.

Words worm their way up and out of his throat and he gives up trying to hold them back. There's no reason to, anymore. If even just one thing he wants to say gets through to Tweek, maybe it'll help.

(Then again, Craig's tried a hundred times over - how could anything Thomas ever says possibly compare to that?)

"I –  _stupid shit, goddamn shit_  – always thought of Craig as my best friend," he says to Tweek, to himself, to no one. "Almost since the start of him coming to meet me and hang out, I thought of him as the one real friend I had.  _Fucking bastard_." He scrubs hard at his face. "I'm not good at talking out loud. I'm not –  _fuck_  – good at emoting." Laughter. "Guess Craig and I have that in common."

At least there's that, he thinks, even if there never was anything else.

Across the table Tweek shakes and cries. Thomas clenches his hands in his lap to stop himself from reaching over. He doesn't want to cross any of Tweek's boundaries, since he seems so utterly broken already.

"Thing is, I never really bothered trying to talk my feelings out, or to communicate what I was going through.  _Asshole, useless— dickmaster_." One more point to Tommy, the extraordinary human screw-up. "At least Craig tries with you, even if he does mess up sometimes." He leans further into his chair and tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, rather than at the younger boy. "I always figured  _you_  did that to him, y'know.  _Goddamn shit_. He was so closed off as a kid – all angry and quiet – but he started growing out of it. You changed him so much.  _You_  made him better and all I've ever done is—"

" _No_ , h-e loves you," says Tweek, startling Thomas out of his monologue. "He l-loves you, loves  _you._ Always better. Better with you. Bad with me." He visibly tries to pull himself back together, squinting through eyes that won't focus and making a low whine in the back of his throat. "Yo-u— I don't make him smile. He doesn't talk— doesn't talk with me like in your texts. He—  _nnrf_. You help him feel better. That's— that's  _love_."

The absurdity of Tweek's comment stirs up a sad, dull laugh in his chest. The muscles in his face do something weird. " _Ah, shit_. You're wrong. That's not love, man. Not for –  _a-asshole_  – most people. Not for me." Has to swallow down around the hurt, and purposefully looks away. "That's his love for  _you_ , Tweek. He's  _always_  adored you.  _Suck— suck a dic_ k. If he's sad around you, it's because  _you're_ sad, and he hates seeing it. I make him smile for a little while because I'm a small distraction, but you're  _everything_ _to him_. His whole world revolves around you."

But... it's no use.

He can tell as he looks at the younger boy that the words don't sink in – that they don't break through the fog to reach him.

So all he can do is wait out Tweek's episode and make sure he's lucid enough to get the right coach home. Maybe once everything's settled down a little, he'll contact Tweek and convince him to let Thomas send all of his stuff back.

...

13:01  
_Tweek let me know if you get home safe okay._  
_i can call Craig for you if you want._  
_if you need._  
_Tweek._  
_Tweek?_

13:46  
_NO!_  
_no don't trll him,please._  
_Its' ffine man. Im fine._  
_SOrry._

13:47  
_please dont apologize._  
_im the one who should be doing that._  
_ive messed everything up so much._  
_all this happening is my fault._

15:58  
_Homen ow._

16:02  
_okay good. thats good._

...

20:14  
_Tweek if you ever want to talk about it more or if you want me to talk to Craig._  
_i can._  
_if you want me to back off or help out in any way i will._  
_please know i dont want to ruin things for you both._

...

09:06  
_i havent touched the letter yet Tweek._  
_i can read it if you want me to. but i would really like to send them back if thats okay._

09:09  
_Dont' fuckijg send them back._  
_Dob't_

09:48  
_okay. if thats what you want tweek._

...

05:21  
_i couldnt sleep last night thinking about opening the letter._  
_im going to today after school unless you message before then._

...

When he gets home that evening, he's made himself feel sick with worry.

Tweek hasn't replied to his message, so it's pretty clear that he still wants him to read the letter.

He doesn't respond to his mom's boyfriend's greeting as he climbs the stairs – just walks slowly to the top and drags his feet to his door.

The lumpy envelope is sat on his nightstand, right beside Craig's Valentine's card for him.

Two gifts he doesn't deserve; two punishments he does.

His tics calm down long enough from him to open the letter carefully, each movement painfully slow so as to not tear the white paper.

Reaching inside, the first thing that he lifts out is a small, rectangular cube of metal. A USB stick.

Thomas stares down at the item in his fingers, long moments of confusion spinning through his head. It's got stripes painted on it, wobbly blue and green lines that wrap around the whole case. Flipping it, he sees a tiny red sticker aligned, dead center, on the underside.

It's a heart.

After a long study of it, tracing the thin, wonky lines and the uneven spots where it must have bubbled up while drying, he sets the USB aside and turns his attention back to the letter.

Pulling it out and flipping it open has his whole body shaking.

Tiny, cramped words fill the entire page.

He reads it all, familiarising himself with the shape of Tweek's letters – stumbles over some spots where the cramped writing is almost illegible.

'...  _I just feel tired right down into my bones. I think I must of aged a life time in this one school year, Tommy. I started off fourteen and kind of a mess, and I've ended up fifteen and dead inside._ '

And once he's finished, he goes back to the beginning and reads it a second time.

' _Nothing has gone right. Everything is broken. I just keep fucking up_.'

A third.

' _He loves you, he reallly really loves you, Tommy. With all of his heart. Me? Not so much. He called me a lot of names that hurt and a lot of things that stuck there and made my brain feel like it was fucking rotting._ '

A fourth.

' _You know, sometimes I just stare into the mirror at the person on the other side and all I see are these blobs that someone forgot to put together right. Like God rummaged through the trash and stuck all the leftover bits on one face._ '

Reads it until he notices the ache in his eyes are from falling tears.

' _This is all too much, and I need to get rid of it before I fucking drown, or rot, or explode._ '

His breath shudders through him.

' _...all I can think is 'I want to go. I don't want to be here. I want him and I can't have him. I hate him. I love him. Is this what hell feels like?_ '.

He kicks violently at the nightstand, swears so loud that his mom's boyfriend pokes his head around the door.

' _He keeps you like a secret becuase he wants you to himself._ '

So instead, he screams and curses at  _him_. At the middle-aged man in the doorway, with a scruffy beard and a worried frown.

' _It's my heart, Tommy. Have it, and look after it._ '

The man just stands there and takes it, and once the litany of hate and anger subsides, once Thomas has finished kicking and hitting and shouting at everything within two feet of his bed, he very calmly offers Thomas a cup of mint tea.

' _It's yours._ '

That just makes Thomas cry harder.

(Tweek's heart will never be his. And neither will Craig's.)

...

It takes another few days to start on the USB, but once he does, he's obsessed. Everything on it is a nonsensical jumble of thoughts and feelings and so many words that he can't make heads or tails of it at first.

Slowly, he begins piecing it all together. Journal entries and photographs, drawings and poems, the small nicknacks in the canvas bag... things start to slot into place. They start making sense.

And Thomas realizes for the first time that Craig's stories really didn't do Tweek any justice. He's such a loud, vibrant character that nothing anyone ever said  _could_. He's weird; hilarious and heart-wrenching by sudden turns. Seeing it all for the first time is like riding a roller coaster.

Thomas learns so much about their friendship group that he feels like he's there. About Cartman and Kyle and Stan, and their riotus arguments – their endless, reckless adventures that often lead the people around them into ruin. About Clyde crying his eyes out over every little thing, and Token being calm and patient even when Tweek is angry at the world, or so stressed he's screaming. About Butters and Kenny, and Tweek's slow-growing friendship with them in the absence left by Craig's trips to Denver.

Over time, Thomas spots the holes, too. The erratic mood swings and the huge gaps of silence that start when Tweek's twelve. The long, rambling passages that make no sense. Descriptions of death and torture and injuries so graphic that Thomas' stomach turns. An unnatural obsession with fire, and a beast that lives in a cage in Tweek's chest and tries to claw its way free. Tweek's fear of abandonment and his loss of self.

The biggest running theme in all this is Craig. Craig is the subject he spots most often, in amongst the happiest and the most miserable entries of Tweek's journals. He's the one constant in it all, in a world where Tweek's so clearly overwhelmed just by existing. Craig calms him, makes him more coherent. And sure, sometimes Tweek is angry at him or hurt by something stupid Craig says, but the good times outnumber the bad a hundred to one. He's closer to his old self – brought back to the world of the living by Craig's hugs and soft words. When the other boy is present in the passages, the gore and the horror plaguing him seems to be kept at bay.

Anyone could see that Craig Tucker is everything to Tweek –  _everything_  – if only they read a few pages of his journal. It's love, it's so clearly love. Even through the worst times.

(And reading this, he sees new things in Craig that make his heart swell and soar and skip beats. The little glimpses he's always had in his interactions with Craig are nothing at all in comparison to what the other boy gives Tweek. The endless, misunderstood confessions – laid out right there in Tweek's diary, written down by perhaps the most oblivious person Thomas has ever met – and the affection. His stomach spins and his mind races as he reads, on and on, on and on.)

...

A month of reading and reordering the work – of texting Tweek over and over begging him to talk, to please let Thomas help out, only to be ignored – and finally, Thomas sits back on his desk and looks over the contents of the folder and the canvas bag with new eyes.

He's tired. He's so, so tired.

(It's like someone's hooked his insides up to a hose and has drained all of him away, until all that's left is a husk of brittle skin and stale air.)

There's only one thing he can do now.

Just one more thing before he can move on.

Reaching for his phone, he flips through to his messages. For a long moment he stares at their last, stilted conversation about Thomas not being free to meet up two weeks ago.

Typing it out is easy; sending it off is the hard part.

19:04  
_can you meet me this weekend._  
_ive got a lot i want to talk about with you._

Craig's reply is instant.

19:05  
_okay dude_  
_what day  
what time?_

...

Saturday. Eleven in the morning, outside of the station.

Bright again, but the wind has died down. It’s still bitterly cold, despite the fact that summer should be close by. There's a weight in the air and the taste of metal in the back of his throat like a brewing storm, and Thomas doesn't know whether it's atmospheric pressure or if it's just in his head.

He's dressed in an old black puffer jacket he found in the back of the cupboard under the stairs, that he thinks might have been one of his dad's. There's stuffing leaking out the seam of one elbow and a scuffed up patch on the back, but it feels right. His mom says that he's almost as tall as his dad, now, and though he knows he'd have to fill out to fit it properly, he feels more like him today than he ever has before. Closer to him in the only ways that count.

(A runaway, scumbag father with a worthless, scumbag son. Would he be proud, Thomas wonders?)

Craig, on the other hand, is dressed exactly the same as always. Dark jacket, dark jeans, dark boots. His face is sickly pale, and blank in the way it's always been – a way that Thomas never would have noticed, before seeing the photos in the USB.

They don't hug – they  _haven't_  hugged since the night outside of Thomas's yard, after the party. He just waits for the younger boy to reach his side.

Thomas can't bear the thought of the coffee shop, or of going home, or of walking through the streets to somewhere new. There  _is_  no new chapter for them (not together, at least) and so to go somewhere different would just feel wrong.

" _Aw, shit_. We should go to the park by your Gran's," he suggests, shoving his hands into his pockets when Craig reaches out for him. The other boy withdraws, and Thomas tries not to watch as his fingers curl into a loose fist.

They walk in silence. At the bus stop Craig stares at him, until every hair on his arms and the nape of his neck stands to attention. For his part, Thomas ignores the ache of tears in the back of his throat and looks down the length of the road at the cars passing. (Green. Blue. Yellow. Red.) Every one of his tics – and there are many, today – feels like a live wire sparking off of exposed nerves. He's never hated having Tourette's so much before.

Eventually the bus comes and they climb on board, standing in the isle together because all of the seats are taken. A toddler is wailing towards the front of the bus, kicking fat little legs and throwing it's hands into the air, even as it's harried looking mother rocks it, patting it's back and shushing, over and over. Thomas watches that red, puckered face and steps further away from Craig when the other boy's shoulder knocks into his. It's not an accidental touch, but it may as well be. There are no emotions behind it.

(There's  _nothing_  between them – there never really has been – and the reminder is a whole new type of agony.)

As the bus comes to a halt at their stop, they clamber off and follow the sidewalk down the street, turning off a block later and slipping into the public park. The air bites at Thomas' face, and no matter how he ducks his nose into his collar, it does nothing. He's shaking so hard he's sure Craig must be able to see it even though his hands are in his pockets.

Like usual, the park is almost empty. A handful of elementary schoolers are at the other end on their scooters, shouting words that bleed into the background noise of passing cars and barely-rustling leaves.

By silent agreement, they find their old bench. Thomas sits first and forces himself to lean back into the cold, hard wood. For a long moment Craig just watches, until he joins him too, long legs stretched out ahead of them. A loud sigh and a billow of white breath draw Thomas' eyes to the only real friend he's ever had, and the apathy that Thomas has been clinging to by barely a thread all of this time crumbles.

His friend looks so grown up compared to the last time they were here. He's all broad shoulders and long, aristocratic features. Craig's still thin, but there's this graceless dignity in the way he lounges, like the rotting wooden bench he's sat on is actually a marble throne. His freckles are a light dusting over the bridge of his nose, and his eyelashes thick, dark frames around pale eyes.

Thomas' breath catches and his voice dies in his throat. When the ache moves up behind his eyes and his vision begins to dance, his turns away again. Stares out across the grass and bushes and trees at the half-hidden children.

In the end, it's Craig who breaks the quiet between them.

"This is it, isn't it?" he says, voice rough in a way Thomas thinks he might have once mistaken for anger or sadness. Now, he thinks it's just tiredness. He doesn't think that either of them have much more than that left to give. Craig has spread himself too thin, and Thomas has pushed himself too far in one direction, where he's unwanted.

Instead of answering outright, the blonde tilts his face away to hide the heat rising up to his cheeks and focuses on letting his tics run themselves dry. He cusses and kicks, bashing his fist against the seat. His muscles hurt. His throat hurts.  _All_  of him hurts. "Remember when –  _fucking asshole_  – we came here a few years back and you told me you were in love?" The words are barely even a croak.

Thankfully, Craig goes along with it. Snorts. "You mean the time I cried like a fucking baby over nothing."

"You cried over  _Tweek_ ," Thomas corrects, a little louder than before. He shoots Craig a sidelong glance and looks away when he spots those hooded blue eyes watching him. He squeezes his hands into tighter fists in his pockets. "You cried over Tweek not understanding you were confessing, or that you were in love with him."

"I wish you'd look at me if you're gonna do this, dude." Flat. Weary.

Shaking his head, he ignores those words – ignores the fact that Craig thinks he knows what Thomas is going to say, and is already resigned to it – and just says instead, "At the time, I thought that I was in love with him too. I listened to all your stories and I thought that the things I felt for him and the way you talked about him meant that I felt the same way."

(He had been wrong, back then. The love was for Craig –  _always_  for Craig. The things Thomas feels for Tweek are only really beginning to grow now. He'd thought that his feelings had grown out of something fictional and unfounded, but all along... he'd been wrong. He'd loved Craig's affection and his acceptance of Tweek. He'd loved his fascination and his dedication. His confusion and his heartbreak. Everything was always so intense for Craig, when it came to Tweek – especially considering how little anything else affected him, day-to-day. It was like comparing a tidal wave to a trickling stream.)

"I figured." Craig grunts, and begins digging in his pockets for something. Only when there's a rustle and a click does Thomas look over. A bright orange flame licks at the end of a cigarette, where it’s dangling from the younger boy's lips. When he pulls the lighter away, the tip glows. He watches the boy suck in a long, only slightly wheezy breath and feels his heart buck unhappily. Tweek's descriptions of burning alive, of choking on the stench of searing meat, run through his head until he has to shake them off. Focus. (Since when does Craig smoke?) "S'one of the reasons I told you a lot of that stuff. It seemed like it made you happy."

For some reason, that stings. Maybe it's the suggestion that Craig was only  _humoring_  him with his stories. He clenches his jaw. " _Fuck_. Is that why? All along."

All he gets is a long puff of ashy smelling smoke and a loose shrug. Craig's knee jumps in a way that grates on Thomas' nerves. Or maybe it's just the  _indifference_. "It was nice that someone understood the way I felt, I guess."

"I didn't." The words are sharper than he intends. Loud in the relative quite of their conversation. Cold blue eyes turn on him, and he bristles. (It makes the words easier, when Craig looks at him like maybe he never mattered much at all.) "I didn't understand.  _Ah shit_.  _Goddamn it_. I didn't love him – I was wrong."

"So you lied about it," Craig says, and all it sounds like is an accusation. Like Thomas has done something  _awful_  by never noticing it sooner. Like somehow he was a bad person for not understanding himself.

" _No_." His voice cracks. He clears his throat. It takes a moment to calm the gallop of his heart or the flip-flopping of his stomach. "No.  _Shit, fucking— assmaster_. I only realized it recently." Swallowing down the pain, he looks away again. "I worked it out a little while back, when I met—" he stumbles across the words – barely cuts himself off before he finishes the sentence. Bites into his tongue for good measure and tries not to panic. " _Fuck. Fuck it_."

(Almost, he thinks. He'd almost betrayed Tweek – as if he wasn't already a bad enough person.)

He turns his attention to the crook of his arm and picks at the split seam in his dad's old jacket between hand-wrenching tics, plucking out tiny white feathers that remind him of dandelion fuzz, or maybe snowflakes. Reminds him of twisted, broken wings. The sting in his eyes escalates, but he blinks back his tears.

"Someone new," Craig says, voice low. Steady. "You met some new guy."

A nod is just about all he can manage, even though it's not a lie at all. He'd never met Tweek before that, so Craig's not incorrect – even if he  _is_  tying the facts together in a way that's just plain wrong.

"You think you love him." His only friend stubs the last of his cigarette out against the edge of the bench, drops the butt on the ground and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot for good measure. "Is that why you wouldn't meet up a few weeks back?"

"I—  _stupid shit, cocklord_ — I  _know_  I love him."

(It's  _you_ , he wants to say. I'm in love with  _you_. I love you so goddamn much it's ripping me apart from the inside out. And I never let myself realized it, because I was too scared.)

The only person he's ever really tried to please aside from himself snorts and crosses his arms. "After, what... a couple months, tops?"

Thomas doesn't even try to defend himself, or to correct the assumptions. There's no point. So he brings it back to what he needs to say instead. " _Aw, shit_. I didn't ever love Tweek like you did. To me, he wasn't ever real.  _Ass, piece of ass_. He was just –  _fuck_  – a character from some story that I'd never get the chance to know."

"But you  _do_  know him. Everything I told you was— it  _was_  real." Craig turns to face him fully on the bench, and there's a furrow in his brow. "I told you  _everything_. Because you  _asked_  me to. And now you suddenly get to decide you never even cared? What kind of jump in logic is that?"

That's it. Too much. Thomas can barely hear over the rush of his heartbeat in his ears – can barely talk past the force of the lump in his throat. " _Motherfucking cock_. That's not true and you _know_ it, Craig," he says, just barely managing to choke the words out. "You keep acting like I... like I  _forced_  you to tell me everything, like I was so desperate, I  _begged_  you to tell me." The air is like ice against his face, and it doesn't occur to him that it's because of the tears rolling down his cheeks. "You wanted someone to talk to, too.  _Stupid shit_. You were  _just_  as damn lonely as I was."

Craig just sits there as Thomas's voice rises, his long, sharp face drained of any color and his jaw tight. Once Thomas has run himself out of words, Craig breathes out through his nose and leans forwards into the older boy's space. "Yeah, I was lonely – congratulations for fucking noticing. The boy I love will never accept me romantically and my entire life is a steaming sack of shit. Maybe I was wrong to insinuate that you were the only one who wanted to speak about Tweek, but I definitely wasn't alone in that desire, Tommy. Far as I remember, you never complained."

Gulping through the rush of tears and the hole splitting open in his heart, Thomas clenches at his legs with numb fingers and bites hard on the inside of his cheek until his swearing dies down. He tilts his head back so he doesn't have to see the blame and anger on Craig's face, and finds himself feeling for the first time like just maybe he  _is_  hurt by all of this. Like maybe he  _does_  have the right to be upset, though he's never really considered that possibility before.

" _Selfish fucktard, selfish-- cunt_.  _Cunt._  Did it ever occur to you that we only talked about Tweek so much because it was safe?  Because you were so wrapped up in your little world that you didn't  _bother_  asking me what was going on in mine? _Asshole_. When was the last time you asked about my life – about what was happening for me?" A sob rolls through him on the tail-end of that thought, and he laughs a low, husky kind of sound that catches hard in the back of his throat. "A-and you're right, I  _didn't_  complain.  _Cockbrain_. In part because I didn't consider  _myself_  important enough to talk about – or perhaps because I wanted what  _you_  wanted, and you never considered that that might be anything to do with  _me_.

"So, yeah, call me whatever the  _hell_  you want for falling for someone who isn't Tweek Tweak, but do it somewhere I don't have to hear.  _Bastard fucker_. Because quite frankly, I'm entitled to my own feelings, _and_ to my own happiness. Even if that doesn't include you and your perfect goddamn crush."

In the silence following that statement, Thomas breathes hard through his tears and wipes at his cold face with trembling hands. Craig sits there and stares at him, and Thomas has no idea what kind of expression the younger boy's making because he doesn't bother to  _look_. He’s not going to go out of his way to fix him this time. He's over that, now.

When he stands from the seat, red faced and crying for what feels like the fiftieth time in the last few years because of Craig, a hand grasps at the sleeve of his dad's coat.

"Tommy, listen—"

He yanks himself free. "No, Craig, don't. Please.  _Fuck_. I messed up a lot, okay? Over the—  _stupid shit_. Over the years I did things that weren't great, like seeing a boy without telling you when we were younger, or—  _motherfucker_ _—_  or letting us both get too drunk, and being so damn hysterical after we— after we did it that I couldn't even try to make you feel better.  _Useless asshole._  I get it, I was a bad friend sometimes, for having things I was dealing with outside of our friendship." He pauses, turning to stare down at Craig. The unattainable; the closed off; the friend he's not sure was ever really his. "But I wanna remind you, I'm a kid too.  _Brainless cockhead_. I've hurt you, sure, but how many times have I tried to reach out, just to be snubbed by you? How many times have I comforted you over the years? _Piece of shit_. I've been there through  _everything_  with you, whenever you finally got desperate enough to come to me for help, so don't act like I've been some selfish, cruel friend using you to get to your boyfriend."

"I wasn't saying that, Tommy, I wasn't."

"Then just let this  _end_ , already." He shouts the words, fists by his sides and an image of a broken blonde boy with massive, glassy green eyes eating him alive. He tries to calm himself down, but at this point his breath is whistling through him in airless puffs and he feels sick with it. Everything's narrowing down to the boy on the bench in front of him, and how desperately Thomas needs to put an end to this festering friendship between them. Not just for Tweek's sake but for  _his_  sake, too.  _And_  Craig's. " _Ah, fuck_. Our lives are too different from when we were kids, Craig. I used to get so  _excited_  on the weekends you'd come to visit. We used to be  _happy_. Now, neither of us are.  _Goddamn sonofabitch_. Why can't we just… stop lying to ourselves that we're good friends, and let it end now?  _Please._ "

He watches as Craig slumps further down in his chair, head tilted back to stare up at the clear blue sky, and limbs limp. "So that's it," he says, as flat as ever. "Six years of friendship down the drain, just because a few things went wrong and we're not 'happy' anymore."

"We tried," Tommy says, his voice swallowed up by the imagined shrieks of an injured bird. Spinning autumn eyes and bloody golden feathers. "We failed. Can't we just stop pretending it'll be okay, before things get any uglier? _Fucking useless_. I want to remember the  _good_  times. Not the arguments and the silences."

Craig scoffs. "The good times?  _What_  good times?" The quiet words cut so deep into Thomas that his breath leaves him in a rush. His face crumples. The younger boy pays no mind to the way he stumbles back a step – to the jerking of his head or the flailing of his right arm. "If that's it, then just... fuck off, Thomas. I don't even want to look at you anymore."

Thomas.

 _Thomas_.

(He's  _never_  called him that.)

The world wobbles around him, and when another vicious tic almost sends him down onto his knees, he follows the movement as best he can  _away_. He gasps at the air and he pushes through it, one foot in front of the other. Away, he thinks. Get away from him. Just  _leave._

So he does, one halting step at a time, until his legs start working and his heart starts pounding, and he's able to run instead of walk. His feet hit the path so hard they _smack_ , and his dad's abandoned jacket flaps loosely around him, but he can't hear anything over the echo of their argument in his head and the breaking of his heart.

A love founded on nothing more solid than loneliness and fairytales is doomed right from the beginning.

(Tommy doesn't stop to say goodbye.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhm, so... yeah. awkward thing to say, buuut there's also gonna be an epilogue at... some point. if i get around to it. i hope you guys... enjoyed this miserable story, to some extent?? it was painful to write. :'Y


End file.
